


none better than you

by scarletbluebird



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: A/B/O verse, Alternate Universe - No Beast (The Magicians), F/F, Gentle Dom Eliot Waugh, I mean the slowest of burns with so much pining, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Miscommunication, Misunderstandings, Multi, Mutual Pining, Slow Burn, Someone stop me, Unreliable Narrator, Yearning, aka Q, basically i am just doing what i want and you can take it or leave it, bibliophile Q, but fillory is still real because i say so, daily life, give it a chance guys, happy endings, past suicide attempt mention, world building
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-23
Updated: 2020-08-23
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:20:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 25,813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26071801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scarletbluebird/pseuds/scarletbluebird
Summary: “Oh,” he whispers. “Oh my god.” Something inside of his body expands and contracts. Out in the distance he can hear his brain frying. “I think I’m having a stroke,” He says, voice faint.“The drama,” Julia drawls even as her brows wrinkle, concerned. “You okay?”Q stares at Eliot, who after a moment glances over and raises an eyebrow at him. How does he always catch him staring? Q looks away, clears his throat. “Yea. This doesn’t change anything.”Turns out, this changes everything.
Relationships: Alice Quinn/Julia Wicker, Margo Hanson/Alice Quinn/Julia Wicker, Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh
Comments: 25
Kudos: 217





	none better than you

“I see now,” Rupert’s voice is soft, his eyes turn away from Jane to look out across the meadow at something beyond her sight. His shoulders are held painfully straight. “Time is the destroyer.”

“No Rupert,” She hastens to correct him, eagerness rising in her breast, hands clasped together around the Key she’d gotten from that strange old man in the wood with the sad eyes. “It can save us.” _I can, if you’ll let me._

He glances at her with dark eyes. The tilt of his chin reads like pity. She thinks abruptly of the war, of his face covered in dirt, of that night she pulled him through a field somewhere deep in France, her throat tight with desperation, quick quick to the time tree and through to the other side. Him fighting her all the while like a caged animal. Blood caked fingers clawing at her arm. She thinks of his voice gasping _you can’t,_ breathless with tears and despair, _Janey how could you do this to me-_ like she wasn’t about to save his life but killing him instead.

Now the silence stretches between them as raw as any wound. He stands and watches her watch him. Her brother, a stranger rendered by her hand.

_Oh god,_ she realizes with sudden clarity. A deep misery makes its home in her heart. _He will never forgive me._

She wonders who she made him leave behind.

\-- The Girl Who Told Time, Chapter 44

* * *

whoever you are, now I place my hand upon you, that you be my poem,

I whisper with my lips close to your ear, I have loved many women and men but I love **none better than you**

\-- Walt Whitman

* * *

none better than you

To the surprise of absolutely no one, Quentin Coldwater is a late bloomer. The morning of his 16th birthday dawns with little fanfare. He wakes up to the blaring of his alarm and blinks at his ceiling through crusty eyes. Out of habit he checks out his bedroom window but it hasn’t snowed in the night; the sky is a heavy grey overcast.

By the time he makes it to the bathroom, he spends fifteen minutes staring at himself in the mirror taking stock: mud brown eyes, limp mousey hair, a generous – albeit nervous –mouth, a little on the short side. He waits and waits to feel _something_. Like somehow at the stroke of midnight he had had some infinitesimal chance, some hope of manifesting as anything other than a pumpkin.

His heart races, and he thinks _maybe_. But there’s nothing. When it comes down to it, Q isn’t different from any of the other billions of Bs out there. He feels a well of bitterness rise up in his throat and scoffs, rolling his eyes at his reflection.

“What a dumbass,” he says, to himself. He tries to shake it off, goes to his room and roots around the piles of laundry until he finds his favorite sweatshirt – a very soft, very dark green one from his Dad that says _muggleborn_. He finger combs his hair and tucks the long strands behind his ears. “It’s fine, it’s fine,” he says three or four times until the anxiety that is perpetually blooming in his chest calms down.

He stomps down the stairs to greet his father like a grump, and then again with a chagrinned bashfulness when he realizes Ted has made him a stack of his favorite banana pancakes and sweet coffee. He feels better after eating, and even better when he goes outside and sees Julia waiting for him with a giant red balloon and a shit eating grin. Her cinnamon-y beta scent curls around him as if to say _hello Q, hello_.

“Happy birthday!” She all but yells, jumping up and down on her little feet and thrusting out her balloon.

“Thanks Jules,” He finds himself smiling, the last of his bad mood fizzling away. He takes the balloon and looks up at its shape against the slate grey sky. 

_It’s better I’m a beta,_ he thinks. It wasn’t all bad; Julia was a beta after all. But Julia had other things going for her: she was top of their class, rich, beautiful. For once Q would have liked to have had something that set him apart.

“You okay?” Julia’s shooting him a worried look, all big eyes.

“Ye-up,” he says, because he is, mostly. Broken brain notwithstanding. _Aren’t you going to ask?_ He thinks uncharitably. But of course, she isn’t. No doubt she knew there was no chance in hell of him presenting as an O.

“Good,” Julia grins, giving him a quick hug. When she pulls back, she’s smirking. “What do you say we skip school and head into the city? Coffee and books? I took my dad’s spare car keys and he’s out of town,” She pulls them out of her pocket with a flourish. Q feels a rush of affection for her.

“Hell yes,” he agrees, instantly.

Really he should be _relieved_ , he thinks. He’s much too plain to be an O.

* * *

Quentin’s 20th birthday is in three days. He’s paging through a beat up copy of The World in the Walls when he’s hit with a sudden burst of nausea. _Must have been the iffy milk_ he thinks, trying to work his way through it. Saliva floods his mouth and he pinches his eyes shut against the brightness of the overhead lights. He rests his hand against the shelving to brace himself. For a minute, the nausea seems to abate but then it comes back with a vengeance. A sour feeling rises swiftly in his gut.

“Ugh.” Okay never mind, he has to go home. He puts the book back carefully and gives it a mournful look. Oh well, it was out of his budget anyway.

He finds Julia in the nonfiction section (she’s going through a Thomas Jefferson phase, whatever that means). “Jules,” he says, miserable. Arms wrapped around himself. “I gotta go home, I think I ate something bad.” He’s starting to break out into a cold sweat, feels it beading above his lip, at his temple.

“Shit,” She shoves the tome in her hands back on the shelf without looking, comes over to put her hand on his forehead. Yanks it back. “Jesus Q, you’re burning up!”

“Really?” He touches his forehead. “I don’t feel hot.”  
  


“It’s hard to tell on yourself,” She looks amused despite her worry. She hovers, close and Q flinches away before he even realizes what he’s doing. She smells _bad_ he realizes suddenly. Like she’s drenched in sour sweat or bathed in vinegar. It’s pungent and it makes him have to breathe through his mouth. “Okay let’s go.”

“No, no it’s alright you stay here. I’ll see you back at home.” He’s desperate to get away from the smell of her. He waves her off, manages to walk at least passably normal out the door and down to the metro. The ride home on the train is a blur, people standing too close, his head lolling to press against the thick plastic windows.

He doesn’t bother turning on any lights when he gets to the apartment, just shuffles down the hall with heavy eyes. He hits the mattress hard, immediately passing out and his dreams are full of strange shapes; sunlight through bright verdant canopies, a field heavy with wild flowers; he walks, skimming his hands along the top of friendly daisies; the feeling of someone’s hand heavy in his hair. He looks up into a well-loved face.

When he wakes his head is pounding and he’s sweat through his sheets. Also, something is seriously wrong with his ass.

“What the fuck?” He reaches into his underwear and puts his hands between his legs. Wet. He yanks his hand back and stares blankly.

“What? Oh god. What?” The next minute is spent in a frantic haze where he scrambles for his phone and texts Julia their code word _BLUEBERRIES_ (which means drop everything and come because there might be a body to dispose of). She shows up about 15 minutes later and announces her presence by banging on his door like a harpy.

“Q?!” She shouts.

“Come in,” he croaks out. “Don’t judge!” he holds up his hands as she slams the door open, windswept with her hair in a crazy nest around her head.

She stares at him with a blank face before gasping, “Holy. Shit.”

It’s kind of a whirlwind after that. Q has clips of memory: Julia dragging him into the bathroom and making him take a shower. Stumbling back to his little bedroom in nothing but a towel, barely conscious. Watching her strip his bed while he stands drowning in self-loathing _god can’t even do this right_ her saying “it’s okay Q, I did a research paper on this topic one time” him saying “what best friends going into heat?” her all big eyes explaining what “late presentations” meant.

“You’re supposed to nest,” she says to him like it’s supposed to mean something to him when he feels like his skin is on fire. She brings him an armful of soft blankets smelling of their laundry detergent. Together, they fashion a strange little semicircle on the bed he crawls into, lamenting his life.

She leaves him with a promise of returning in a few hours with food and “Gatorade like so much Gatorade.” He lays there in the wake of hurricane Julia, drenched in sweat and staring miserably at his ceiling. It’s so _hot_ , he feels like he’s itching out of his skin. He scratches his arms, chest, belly but the feeling just gets worse.

“Fuck,” He starts to cry with frustration, rubs at his eyes and rolls over, pressing his face against one of the pillows. Maybe he can suffocate himself and this will all be over. He thinks of a lifetime of this, stinking up cramped bedrooms with whatever the fuck is oozing out of him, naked and alone and pathetic. “Fuck.” God, and to think he had wished for this. What an idiot.

He doesn’t really remember Julia coming back, just her little hand running through the mess of his hair. He wakes again sometime in the night and downs three Gatorades in quick succession. Shivers in the center of his bed for god knows how long, rubbing his legs together against the weird, relentless ache inside of him. All in all it’s a pretty horrible night. He had never thought about sticking his fingers in his ass, besides a passing fancy that struck every once and a while in the shower, but by the end of the night he’s had four fingers up there and still couldn’t quench the hunger. The hours blur together, and thankfully he can’t remember much. When his fever finally breaks, he wobbles out of the bedroom and into the bathroom, hair matted with sour sweat.

He avoids looking in the mirror, sits hunched over on the toilet as the shower heats up holding his throbbing head in his hands. Time stretches like taffy on hot pavement. He blinks himself awake under the spray and presses his cheek against the cold tile.

“Could have been worse,” he croaks to himself, eyes crusty with dried tears. He feels heavy, like he’s weighted down with river stones, his head filled with cotton. The rest of his life stretches ahead of him like a dark unmarked road. He turns his head into the searing water and closes his eyes.

* * *

Julia is sitting on the couch in the living room when he finally emerges from the bathroom. She’s got her hair pulled up into a high bun, wearing a loose t-shirt and jeans. On the coffee table in front of her is a shit-ton of Chinese take-out.

“I thought you might be hungry,” She rips off a bunch of paper towels and piles them up next to her plate.

“I’m starving.” He admits softly, so out of touch with his body he hadn’t realized until now just how weak he felt. He stumbles over to the couch over to the couch and sits down with a huff akin to relief. Julia wastes no time piling up a plate with the works, by the time she’s done there’s a little mountain Q begins to methodically eat his way through.

“How are you feeling?” She asks, when he’s halfway done with the food.

He slurps up a lo mein noodle, considers. “A little achy,” he shrugs. “But surprisingly okay.” He glances over at her. “Are we gonna talk about how crazy this is?”

“Only if you want to,” She assures and Q just knows she’s mentally referencing all the _safe talk O_ books they had to read in high school.

He bites down his annoyance, chomping into an eggroll. Then he sighs and pushes his plate away. “I guess…I’m an omega.” He tries to keep his voice casual, but it comes out anything but. Tight and throaty; something forbidden. He presses the tips of his fingers together.

“Late presentations aren’t unheard of,” Julia’s voice is soft. She shrugs, mixing her spoon through her fried rice. “It’s just not very common. But theoretically you shouldn’t be any different from an O who presented when they were 16.”

“Except I’m 20,” Q grumps, folding his arms. He tilts his head back against the sofa cushion to look at the ceiling. There’s a weird water stain next to the overhead light he doesn’t remember seeing before.

“Now let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” He can tell by the sound of Julia’s voice that she’s smirking, “you’re 19.”

He rolls his eyes, puffs out his cheeks. “Julie…I’ll be 20 in a week.”

She gives him a saucy wink before her face falls into more serious lines. “Do you want me to get my mom to talk to you? It would be totally confidential,” She rushes to assure, “but I think it could be helpful?”

“I’m registered B,” He reminds her, tucking his still damp hair behind his ear. It’s getting long, and he thinks vaguely about cutting it. “Isn’t that technically illegal?”

Julia waves her hand, “Psshh, listen, that registration shit is antiquated anyway. Mom is always saying that within the next ten years it’ll be revoked. She’s a total proponent of the new gender laws, so you have nothing to worry about there. Up to you though.”

Quentin bites his lip, staring up at that water stain. If he tilts his head it kind of looks like Australia. He considers whether having no one know about this would be worse than talking to an expert on the subject. The mortification makes it a close call but eventually he’s forced to conclude he should probably talk to a doctor, if for no other reason than to get a prescription.

“Fine.” He sighs.

* * *

Mrs. Wicker is one of those fancy doctors – fertility – a big deal to the upper echelon of Manhattanites. She meets them at her apartment (convenient because Julia and Q live there) and the three of them sit awkwardly around the glass coffee table from Pottery Barn. Q hasn’t seen her for a few years; the last time he’d been a sweaty handed teen, nervous at any parental figure and sure she hated him. She’s beautiful in an understated way and Q can see reflections of Julia in the lines of her face.

She has an iPad on her lap, and she gives Q a clinical smile - professional. “Despite how you may feel Quentin, this isn’t an uncommon occurrence with people who have a hormonal imbalance.”

Julia moves to hold his hand. Curling her fingers around his.

“Suppressants should help to stabilize your heats, and lessen the severity of them. Unfortunately, the side effects of antidepressants make heats worse for Os.” She scribbles down something on her iPad and Q can just barely make out an open Rx.

“Okay,” he says softly, feeling somewhat overwhelmed. Something inside him wilts like a flower at the end of the season at the words ‘hormonal imbalance.’

“We can also do some tests to check on your fertility,” She taps some things on the screen. 

“Oh?” He swallows, swallows again. Hand clammy against Julia’s palm. 

“It can sometimes be an issue with people who present later,” Mrs. Wicker’s voice is soft, she looks at Q over the rims of her glasses. She has the same eyes as Julia. “It’s good to know to help with balancing meds and planning for the future.”

Planning for the future. Haha. “Uhm,” he tucks his hair behind his ear. “I-I guess. I mean…if you think it could be an issue.”

“It would be good to know for your own health if nothing else.”

Julia rubs her thumb against his hand. He looks down at their fingers, mind strangely blank. He thinks about how much he’d wanted her to hold his hand at thirteen, fourteen, fifteen. Now his heart is aching for something he can’t name. 

“Oh-okay well then. Sure, let’s do it.” His face feels warm. He just wants this conversation to be over. He takes the tablet Mrs. Wicker hands him and spends fifteen minutes filling out the forms.

* * *

His tests come back as expected. The combination of his stunted serotonin production, wonky androgens and anti-depressant cocktail means it’s ‘highly unlikely’ he will ever conceive. Fanfuckingtastic. He swallows against the wave of sadness rising in his throat, folds the report with shaky hands, placing it carefully in the envelope. He shoves it deep in his bureau, underneath the big blue sweatshirt with the words Columbia blazed across the chest. Spends long minutes telling himself it doesn’t matter, that until a week ago he hadn’t even known it was an option. Leave it to Quentin Makepeace Coldwater to miss something he didn’t even know he’d wanted. What an idiot.

And life goes on.

* * *

He’s 24 and exhausted. Shaky with caffeine and half remembered dreams: spires in sunlight, Julia yelling at him half submerged in deep water, her hair hanging wet around her face, shattered pieces of glass sparking with electricity in a starless void, a tall figure beckoning to him from far away.

He runs his hands through his messy hair, thinks _how long has it been since I washed this?_ It’s getting too long, almost to his shoulders, he really needs to chop it off.

“I told him no,” Julia is snipping into her cellphone from where she’s sitting across from him, leaning back in her seat, a jasmine tea rapidly cooling in front of her. Q can basically hear her teeth grinding together. He sighs and takes a sip of his latte, looks out the window and down the street. It’s a blustery day in New York, leaves sweep up in spiral torrents, pushing crowds of people along noses tucked into scarves, hats pulled down over faces. He feels a bubble of warmth in his chest as he sees a little dog pass by with his tongue lolling out. Autumn has always been his favorite season.

“Yea, well my definition of the word means _no_.” Julia hangs up the phone with a – “what a dick head.” She rubs vigorously at the frown lines between her eyes.

“And here I thought you loved group projects,” Q quips, smirking as she glares over at him.

“I said that _one time_ Q,” She growls dramatically, picking up her tea and taking a sip. Throws her hair back. “Jesus, like you haven’t said some dumb shit. Remember your Ricky Martin phase?”  
  


“Alright, alright simmer down.” Q feels himself go hot. “I get it.”

“Hmmm,” She smirks at him and his mouth curls into a smile despite himself. They sit there for a few minutes in a comfortable silence: the kind that can only be forged through years of trials and tribulations. The sort made of scuffed knees, hiding under tables, climbing trees, staying out past curfew friendships. Eventually, Julia’s phone alarm goes off and they both sigh in regret and begin to gather their things. Back to reality.

Out on the street Q waits as Julia fumbles through her side satchel, muttering to herself as she shuffles among the truly massive amount of loose paper and detritus in her bag.

“Ah-ha!” She exclaims, holding up a scrap of paper in triumph. “Found iiiit.”

Q squints at her, dread rising in his chest. “Are you _sure_ it’s okay if I come along?”

“Please Q,” She rolls her eyes dramatically. “Don’t do this to me.”

Q holds up his hands, widens his eyes. “I’m just saying.”

“You’re coming,” Julia gives him a hard stare. “And that’s final.”

He frowns but follows her as she turns and clips down the sidewalk at break neck speed. He rewraps his scarf around his neck as the wind almost takes it, two-stepping and still struggling to keep up. He used to try to argue with Julia but as he matured – no matter what she liked to say otherwise – he realized that it was kinda pointless. It often felt like it was Julia’s world and he was just living in it, circling around the edges.

_A strange, scraggly specter waiting to be exercised,_ he thinks and then shakes his head at his dramatics. Too early in the day to be thinking like that and not nearly enough caffeine in his blood stream.

“Q!” He looks up and Julia is waving to him from fifty yards ahead. She’s balancing on the curb, with her hand up gesturing as if to say _why the fuck are you so slow_?!

What happens next is a strange sequence of events that Q doesn’t parse or piece together until much later. He thinks inanely: _why is she holding a stack of papers now,_ he thinks: _oh_ as a gust of wind hits them, scattering them across the street. Life stutters in strange clips like hanging negatives in a dark room; now he’s chasing Julie down the street, laughing, sweeping up stacks of paper, listening to Julia curse like a sailor; now he’s reaching the end of the alley turning back towards her, hair clouding into his eyes, a strange euphoria bubbling inside; now she’s grabbing his hand and pulling, still chasing after that last piece of paper, through the pretty ivy growing on the gate to a private garden, through a sudden thick press of verdant greenery, out into a bright open field; now the two of them gape at each other like fish on dry land, strange stilted laughter still bursting out; Now a figure comes, cutting its way across the field towards them business-like in a dark red vest, long long legs Q jerks his eyes away from.

“You’re late,” The man says, holding two cards in his hands. He glances towards Julia and then turns his eyes to Q, giving him a brief once over. Q tries not to squirm, hates the tell-tale flush that stains his cheeks and his racing heart. He hates being looked at; is keenly aware of his wind-swept hair and wrinkled clothes. “Quentin Coldwater and Julia Wicker, I presume?” The man doesn’t wait for them to reply, is already turning away saying, “Follow me. I’m not about to get my ass chewed out by Foggy if you miss the test.”

“Test?” Julia echoes. They both look at each other for a moment as if to say _is this happening?_ Or _what is a foggy?_ The manicured lawn around them is strangely silent but for the wind rustling the leaves of the big Chestnut trees. Then they jump into action, racing after their guide whose legs have taken him almost all the way across the field.

_Is this a dream_? Q wonders, hand clenched tight in Julia’s. The man leads them into the building, through a maze of seemingly random turns, to the arched entrance of a room that is teeming with people.

“Here we are,” He says, after taking a peek inside. He glances back at them and tucks the cards into a pocket of his vest. “Alright kids, good luck.”

“Wait!” It takes Q a moment to realize it’s his voice that’s called out. The man pauses mid turn and cocks an eyebrow at him. “Um, who are you?”

The man’s lip’s quirk after a moment. “Eliot Waugh.”

_Eliot_ Q rolls the name around in him mind, tasting it. It feels like something he should have known.

Julia gives his hand a squeeze and he realizes abruptly that he’s just been standing there staring and Eliot’s smile keeps widening.

“Best get in there,” he winks. “If you’re lucky, I’ll catch you on the other side.”

* * *

By some strange miracle they both pass, find each other in the foyer and embrace, shaky with endorphins and disbelief. Q’s blood feels electric, and he meets Julia’s smile with a wide one of his own.

“Where did they place you?” She asks, after they pull away from a bone crushing hug.

“Gryffindor,” he jokes, giddy with joy. It’s a strange feeling; happiness. It tastes sweet, like summer fruit in the back of his throat.

Julia laughs. “Ravenclaw!” She says. “Fuck yea this is gonna be awesome.”

* * *

He walks into his dorm room and puts his bag on the bed that seems open – the other one is covered in scarfs. It’s a quaint little room with two little closets and a window sill that is already lined in plants.

His roommate walks in, and it’s that tall dark and handsome – and nearly naked guy – who’d given him the stink eye in the examination room. He stops short when he sees Q and this _look_ comes over his face, something akin to constipation.

“Oh hell no,” he says emphatically, pointing at him. “No. Nope. Not happening.”

“Er.” Q scratches his head as Penny - was his name Penny, he thinks he remembers someone calling him that - stomps to his side of the bed and starts throwing the colorful scarves around.

“You gotta find a place to live dude.” He’s dividing up his scarves into seemingly random piles with sure hands.

“Um, pretty sure it’s here.” Q goes to open his bag. Penny whips around.

“Think,” He snaps, eyes big and kinda crazy looking. “What you gonna do at your _time_ , huh?”

Q jerks back, wide eyed and with a growing pit of unease in his stomach. He glances at Penny, who he realizes with a subtle sniff, is definitively an alpha. He smells like something you find in a bakery. Dough maybe? He sniffs again, taking in the slightly sour, sharp scent.

“Dude,” Penny looks decidedly unimpressed. When he folds his arms, his biceps bulge. “Stop. Smelling me.”

Quentin’s face burns. “S-sorry.”

“Anyway, for reasons I genuinely hope I don’t have to explain to you, you gotta find somewhere _else_ to live.” Penny gives him one more hard look and turns away.

“What, do I stink?” Q blurts out. He has a thing okay, he knows he has a thing. He’s limited himself to asking Julia only a few times, despite the fact that her olfactory sense can’t possibly pick up O pheromones. His dose of suppressex is high as fuck but Penny had pegged him immediately. Oh god, his heart is racing, are they failing? Is he secreting like a French whore house? His neck itches, the glands there suddenly sensitive. He feels like he’s going to throw up.

“What?” Penny is staring at him with huge eyes, looking hunted.

“Well, isn’t that how you-”

“No dude, I’m a psychic.” Penny’s face does something weird, sort of squishes up.

“Oh,” Q says, somehow disappointed before another altogether different wave of mortification sweeps over him. “Oh _god.”_

“Indeed.” Penny gives him a flat look before sighing and all but collapsing on his bed. “Anyway, you don’t smell like anything,” he cocks his head. “Or like maybe like that nonscented laundry detergent or something. Whatever you’re on is dynamite.”

Q feels himself perk up beneath the heavy blanket of self-loathing. “Thank god for that at least.”

“Mmm,” Penny raises his eyebrows as if to say _you are a weird one._ “Dude, you gotta learn how to ward yourself.”

Julia knocks on the door jam and Penny sits upright like he’s a marionette and someone has just jerked his strings. Julia spares him a friendly smile before turning back towards Q.

“Heya, you ready to explore?”

* * *

It’s a week or so later and Q has finally settled into a pattern with Penny. That pattern being they both try to avoid each other as much as possible – translating to Q trying to spend as much time out of his room as he can. He takes to roaming the campus, sighting out his favorite places to hole away and read. One of them is a big American chestnut on a corner of the green. Upon introducing Julia to his discovery he’d had to live through a rant about the improbability of its existence due to the blight and horticulture warding. Anyway, it had been painful enough he no longer tells her when he’s going out romping. He’s just settled underneath its shaded canopy with a book when he feels the telltale crawly sensation of someone staring.

He glances up and meets the amused gaze of one of most shockingly good looking people he’s ever seen.

“Well hello there,” she gives him a slow grin.

He glances around him just to be sure. But no, she does seem to be talking to him. “Hi?” 

“Hmm,” she tilts her head at him, eyes him up and down. Her long dark hair falls over her shoulder in a mesmerizing wave of curls. “You’re not that cute.”

And really how can one respond to that? He squints up at her but she actually seems to be waiting for him to answer. “Okay?” he agrees, slowly.

She laughs, plopping down gracefully to sit next to him on his jacket. He scootches over when their sides touch, equal parts uncomfortable and enraptured.

“Ohhh Fillory,” she glances down at his book with bright brown eyes. “What’s your favorite book in the series? Quick don’t think about it,” she snaps her fingers rapidly.

“The Girl Who Told Time,” he says, baffled.

“Really, time girl? It’s so boring.” She wrinkles her nose at him. “Classic case of old white man trying to write from a female persepective.”

He rolls his eyes, whatever enchantment he’d been feeling giving way to annoyance. “Here we go,” he snips out, “And I suppose your favorite is the Wandering Dune.”

“How did you know?” She looks surprised.

Q presses his lips together, catching his reply behind his teeth because no matter how much he wants to strike back he realizes he doesn’t actually know who the fuck this girl is. “Who are you?”

“Who am I?” she tilts her head back with a booming laugh, then when she catches the look on his face sobers almost instantly and puts a hand on her chest. “Wait are you serious? What do you live under a rock?”

“Er.” He’s not sure how to respond to that.

“All beauty and not much brains huh,” she says moues her mouth. “Well at least he’s got consistent taste.”

Q stands up, annoyed but not really able to say why. “Ok listen miss, I actually have to go. Can I have my jacket?” he points to the article of clothing she’s sitting on. Come to think of it her skirt is so short she must be- “actually you can keep it.” He turns around and skitters away before she can say anything.

When he tells Julia about it later she looks at him like he’s crazy. “I think that was probably Margo Hanson,” she leans back on her elbows, getting comfortable on Q’s rickety bed. “She’s one of the duo- remember Eliot?”

Eliot, how could he forget. “Ye-es,” Q says although not as casually as he’d like from the pleased fish face Julia gives him. He rolls his eyes at her. “What about him?”

“Him and Margo are a thing here,” she shrugs, holding her hand out in front of her to inspect her nails. “They’re like super popular or something. I don’t really get it.” Spoken like someone who had been popular her whole life.

“Huh.” Q says, stumped. “I wonder why she bothered to talk to me then.”

“Sure Q,” Julia gives him a squinty smile. “I wonder why.”

* * *

Despite their awkward conversation, there’s really nothing Q can do about his living situation. After a few heated (ha ha) arguments, Penny accepts this but Q can tell he’s massively unimpressed. Julia comes to Q in the third week of school with a badass gender neutral ward spell that she weaves like a fine spider web over his side of the room. 

Q’s zoning out in his Theory of Magic course – because theory of magic? Sounds cool, but it turns out it’s boring as fuck. Takes some skill to make anyone dread the subject of magic. He watches with his heart in his throat as a pretty girl makes a horse out of glass from the molecules in the air. It’s amazing, captivating, Q can’t look away.

After the class ends he fumbles awkwardly with his books, stuffing them into his bag, to buy time as the classroom empties. He scrambles over to the girl right a she moves to go out into the hallway.

“Um hi, excuse me,” he stutters. The girls stops and turns slowly to look at him. “I just, I just wanted to say that that was amazing what you did.”

She looks at him like he’s crazy so he adds: “The horse. It was…um..Something else. Anyway, I’m Quentin, it’s nice to meet you.”

She continues to side eye him for a moment before sighing. “Alice,” She says, adjusting her bag on her shoulder. “And thanks.”

* * *

They fall in together; him and Alice. When he sits next to her in their next class (History of Magic and Movement Ergonomics – as boring as it sounds) she gives him a strange look, a little crumpled smile like she’s not used to the movement. It makes him faintly sad. He wonders if Brakebills collects a certain type of person. If being broken is a prerequisite for acceptance. 

It helps that they’re both incredibly awkward: Alice, too competent for her own good; Q the exact opposite. They suffer through a few stunted lunches, before things start to smooth out. And then Julia comes in like a hurricane.

“Hi!” She chirps, the first time she meets Alice. Practically lit up like a light bulb. Q had seen her speed walking across the campus green from practically a mile away, her hair curling around her flushed face.

“Hey Jules,” Q smiles around his sandwich. Alice has stiffened at his side. He glances at her out of the corner of his eye. “Alice this is Julia, Julia this is Alice.”

“Nice to meet you,” Julia grins, friendly as ever. She starts to dig in her bag for her lunch.

“Hello.” Alice says after a moment, voice slow.

“Oh!” Julia pops a piece of an orange in her mouth. “Q told me your kick ass at warding. I’m having trouble with the last three tuts and was wondering if you could show me how you do it.”

Alice’s shoulders go up around her ears then slowly, slowly relax. Her sharp green smell evens out and Q lets out a breath he didn’t even know he’d been holding.

“Sure,” she says, biting her lip. “If you want.”

* * *

During the second week of classes, Julia comes to him with the news that she’s infiltrated the “in crowd”. Apparently, there’s some party and Julia is adamant about dragging Q along. He grumps and groans through her pitch: this is supposed to be an awesome party, it’s really rare first years get invited but she’d made friends with someone who knew someone in her magical stats class who (Q stopped listening at this point and Julia had thrown a pillow at him)-

“Anyway, Alice is busy in the library tonight so you’re coming with me,” She says, just like she always does. And just like he always does, he caves.

* * *

The party is in a very picturesque cottage. It’s kind of oddly placed but Q is totally into the vibe, it looks like something out of a fairy tale. There’s music blaring from the inside, so loud the walls seem to vibrate with it. Q can hear a cacophony of laughter; the sounds of people talking over each other. He’s already dreading it.

Julia stands on the front porch and motions him to stand next to her. He goes slowly, folds his arms and watches her move her hands in a series of movements that must mean something because the door glows and creaks open.

Inside is about the scene Quentin expects: lots of people, dark ambient lighting, music so loud he can barely think. There’s a horde of people dancing close, a group by what looks like a makeshift bar. He spends a few moments staring at the bright TADA sign before Julia calls his name, drawing his attention.

“Look,” She laughs, pointing to a couple holding court on one of the couches. Q does a double take. “Isn’t that Eliot?”

It definitely is. Eliot. And Margo Hanson is sitting next to him. He swallows, watching Eliot, throw his head back and laugh at something she says. When he glances back over at Julia to see she’s giving him a knowingly arch look.

“What?” He squawks, blushing.

“Mmmhmm, I see you Makepeace,” She smirks, eyes all but glowing with mirth.

He makes a face at her. “Are we gonna get a drink or what?” He nods towards the bar.

“Hell ya!” She exclaims, grabbing him by the wrist with surprisingly strong little hands and pulling him into the horde.

Thirty minutes later he’s nursing some kind of themed cocktail Julia had given him (it’s pink and surprisingly bitter but it’s alcoholic so he’ll take it) and listening as she has a heated debate about something or another with a dude who is eying her like she’s a side of meat. He’s used to feeling invisible, but it’s starting to grate on him. He takes another sip of his drink and hides a shudder at the taste. He makes a decision then, and wanders away towards the edges of the room, eventually finding an empty chair to sit on.

He takes another sip of his drink, ugh it really is foul, and pulls out his phone to putz around on.

He’s in the middle of trying to find a word that gave him more than four shitty points in Words With Friends when he feels the arm of the chair shift as someone sits on it. He glances up.

“Well hello, where did you come from?” Eliot tilts his head, and Q has a hard time focusing when he realizes that Eliot’s wearing kohl eyeliner that make his eyes look smokey and dark. 

“Uhm,” Q’s mind stutters for a moment. “The front door.”

Eliot smells amazing; earthy like the deep woods. It’s mouth watering to the point where Q has to consciously swallow his saliva a few times, mortified at himself. He’s the most pleasant smelling beta Q has ever met next to Julia who always smells like a cinnamon stick, like autumn spice wrapped up in a sweater.

He also seems completely unaware of his appeal, which Q supposes makes sense since beta’s senses aren’t heightened like As and Os. He lets out a belly laugh and sits next to Q and puts his arm up over the back of the couch, sipping his smoky drink with his other hand. Q holds his breath and tries not to squirm too obviously. _Be normal,_ he tells himself sternly.

“You’re funny,” Eliot smiles, eyes very green from this close. “I think I’ll keep you.”

“Umm, okay?” Q sticks his nose in his drink.

“And how are you enjoying the party?” he gives an elegant wave of his fingers as if to encompass the room in general.

“I’m not sure the music is loud enough,” he says dryly. Eliot looks surprised before he laughs again.

“It’s after ten so we try to minimize the noise complaints,” he says, leaning in as if to share a secret. _What is happening,_ Q thinks wildly to himself. His heart feels like it’s about to explode.

“As I live and breathe,” a throaty feminine voice cuts into whatever strange vibe is resonating between the two of them. Q looks up into Margo’s face. Her blood red lips are curled up, reminding Q of a cat that nabbed a canary. She perches on the arm of the couch, crossing her legs, causing her short black body-con dress to slip up her thighs even further. Q feels his face heat.

“Bambi,” Eliot sighs from the other side of him, reaching his arm across to touch her knee. “At last, my heart is complete.”

“Mmmm, and hello Quentin.” She raises an eyebrow. “If you’re here for your jacket don’t bother. I cast it into the abyss as soon as I realized it was from target.”

“Wow, rude,” Q frowns at the same time Eliot exclaims, “Wait you two know each other?”

“We’ve met,” Margo gives Eliot a pointed look that Q can’t read before practically singing: “Don’t get your dick in a twist, because I got there first.”

Eliot gives a strange laugh. “Such a funny girl,” he asides to Q, running his hand through his curls.

“Uh…” Q scratches his head, unsure as usual of what’s going on and how to make a socially acceptable response. “yea?”

“You better believe it,” Margo sticks out her tongue. “Sooo, who are we gossiping about?”

Q lets himself melt into the sofa cushions as the two of them go at it. His eyelids grow heavy with content. He thinks faintly, _I could get used to this._

* * *

Being friends with Eliot is strange in that it really isn’t that strange at all. They just seem to fall in together organically. Eliot’s blasé explanation when Q mentions it is that he ‘bonds fast.’

Between Alice, Julia, Eliot and Margo for the first time, Q finds his days full. His mind barely has time to obsess over any storm clouds. The weeks blow by, early autumn folding into a late golden October; the leaves of the trees along the green curling in on themselves in bright carmines and burnt oranges. Q finds himself spending as much time as he can under the vibrant canopies of the trees. He even takes to carrying a blanket in his satchel, which he _knows_ does everything to lend to the stereotype of his sex but fuck it. Eliot usually wanders out to find him and they spend hours luxuriating on his little patchwork, staring up at the sky and chain smoking cigarettes.

Today Q’s got his hair piled up in a messy bun, papers scattered all around him. He thinks he must look as insane as he feels. “Um,” he blinks through a haze of jittery caffeine, “Can I help you?”

Eliot stands just outside his circle of chaos, looking at him with his hands on his hips like a king over-looking his subject and finding him wanting.

“Simmer down tiger,” he gives Q a crooked smile and cocks his head. “what you up to?”

Q sighs. “In theory, I’m supposed to be learning astronomy but in reality I think I’m just seriously contemplating quitting and starting a troubadour band.”

“Enticing,” Eliot’s eyes twinkle. “Should I go break out my tap shoes?”

“Yea, and I’ll dig up my tambourine.” They both laugh.

“Dare I venture into this sacred circle?” Eliot asks, nudging one of the books with his toe.

Q rolls his eyes and begins to condense his horde so Eliot has enough space to stretch out his truly ridiculously long legs. Q shakes his head at himself. You’d think that after a few months his preoccupation (okay okay, _crush_ whatever) with Eliot would have died down. Instead it’s morphed into some pathetic angst monster that has him pining to his ceiling at 2am and writing lazy poetry on his phone. He despairs of himself.

“I can help if you want,” Eliot offers casually, splaying his legs out. He pulls a cigarette out of somewhere and lights it with an elegant tut of his hand. Q sighs at his pile of paper.

“Nah, I think I’ve had enough for the day.” He huffs and lays on his back on the blanket, accepting a cigarette when Eliot offers. “You know I promised myself I would quit these things.”

“Oh yes, it’s my New Years resolution every year.” Eliot laughs, blowing out an intricate geometric design into the afternoon sun.

“Commendable.” Q jokes, puffing out his own shaky smoke ring, watches it go up into the blue sky and dissipate.

“Well, I never make it past one day,” Eliot laughs, closing is eyes. He looks like a painting, dark curls shining in the afternoon light. “I don’t have the best willpower, hedonist that I am.”

“Hmm.” Q sighs, tucks an arm behind his head. They lounge that way, smoking and cracking jokes. It’s nice and Q can almost ignore the fluttering in the bottom of his belly.

* * *

Eventually Q breaks down and asks Alice to help him go over their astronomy material. The three of them are in their biweekly library study, which has amounted to Q’s evolving biweekly migraine.

“The problem is you’re too abrupt in your movement here,” Alice indicates, pointing to one of his star charts and the scraggly line he’d postulated across the graph. He catches a whiff of her limey scent; something like verbena in the summertime. “You need to ease into it.” She curls her fingers to demonstrate and Q watches the line remake itself; spark its way into a gentle easy arch. She glances up at him, “Now you try.”

“Okay,” Q sighs and shakes out his hands then slowly works his way through the tuts, angling his hands just so. The line remakes itself again, sparking gold. The final product is not quite as elegant as Alice’s but better than it had been.

“Well done Quentin,” Alice gives him a little grin, settling back in her seat. Julia’s watching them with a smile.

“There you go Coldwater,” She winks, flipping a page of her truly huge tome. A poof of dust plumes in the air and she coughs, waves her hand and squints.

Q laughs, “Just call me Houdini.” He wiggles his fingers. He looks back down at his maps and starts applying his technique and working his way back through them, rewriting all his star lines.

It’s silent for about thirty minutes or so, Q has just finished his last star chart when Alice clears her throat.

“So,” she says, and her tone of voice makes Q look up. She’s fiddling with her pen, looking awkward as hell. “So,” she says again. “you’re an omega right?” From next to her Julia jerks her head up, eyes wide on a pale face.

“What?” Q drops his pencil. “How did you know?” his chest feels tight.

“Oh, sorry,” Alice stutters. “Was I not supposed to? It’s just..my um….” she clears her throat again, adjusts with her glasses. “My brother Charlie was one…You two have that same non-scent – high dose of suppressex?”

Q nods, staring. _Was one,_ he thinks. _Was_. He hadn’t known Alice even had a brother. He looks at Julia who is sitting very still, watching Alice.

“Anyway, if you-if you ever want to know about gender warding since…I don’t think they teach it here, I can show you the tuts for a really good one.”

_God she’s so nervous,_ he can tell because it’s like looking into a mirror. Her face pinched, eyes unsure. Q feels like his heart is in his throat.

“Thanks Alice,” he croaks. “That would be great.” He glances across the table and meets Julia’s eyes. They’re soft and knowing. “You should know,” He says slowly. “that I’m not registered.”

“Oh, Charlie wasn’t either,” Alice says, like it’s nothing. Like Q wouldn’t be facing serious jail time if he gets caught. “I figured you weren’t since you live in a mixed dorm.”

Julia coughs out a warbly laugh. “And here we thought we were being so slick.”

“It’s not obvious,” Alice assures. “Plenty of betas have little to no scent so you’re camouflaged well. I just knew what to look for.”

“Well, let’s hope no one else does,” Q says wryly, tucks his hair behind his ear.

Alice leans towards him, elbows on the table. “I think the system is sexist as hell,” she says in that serious way of hers, that makes Q smile.

“See I knew we’d make a rebel out of you,” Julia laughs and leans forward too, shoulders brushing Alice’s and making her jump. “Teach us your ways, Queen Alice.”

Alice blushes a bright red that clashes with her orange shirt but shares a grin with Julia. The three of them tilt their heads together and begin to plot.

* * *

A few weeks later, Q is sitting in front of the fire with a glass of sauvignon that melts like butter in his mouth. He closes his eyes against the warmth of the fire and listens to Eliot and Margo paint each other’s nails on the sofa behind him.

“What do you think about this color,” Margo holds up her nails for Q to see a dark dark red on her perfectly buffed nails.

“Looks delightfully badass,” Q takes a sip of his wine, idly swirls the glass.

“Striking fear into the hearts of men and women everywhere,” Eliot blows on her pinky nail and shoots a grin up at Q that makes his stubborn heart stutter. Eliot’s own nails are painted a vibrant green, the kind of color Q would have never thought would look good on any human but that looks beautiful on him, making his eyes particularly vibrant when he brushes his curls back.

“Your nails on the other hand are an eyesore,” Margo looks at Q’s fingernails, no doubt judging his hang nails. Q rubs his thumb against his chin, _could use a shave_ , he thinks as he scratches along his jawline. He glances up and catches the tail end of an unreadable look from Eliot.

“Um…sure,” he says, letting his drop. “if you think—“

“Yesss, get over here Coldwater,” Margo pushes Eliot over on the couch and rubs her hands together before holding them out saying: “Gimme, gimme, gimme”

“Sit down Q, I’ll provide us with libations,” Eliot gently takes the empty wine glass from Q’s hand, and wanders over towards the bar cart.

Margo swipes his hand and starts clipping. Q sighs and lets her go at it, smiling despite himself at her fervor as she practically attacks his thumb.

“Disgraceful,” she snipes at him but her glance is soft when she catches his eye. “What’s up with you,” she asks after a while, “you’re more squirrely than usual.”

“What do you mean?” he asks blithely.

She gives him a look and he feels himself crumble like a house of cards. “I um…” he stutters. “I…I need to find another place to live.”

“But you lived with Penny for like three months,” Margo frowns. “What’s going on?”

“Oh well,” Q scratches the back of his head. Glances at Eliot who seems to be carefully mixing something in a tumbler and paying them little to no attention.

“Yea uh…well our personalities seem to be…very volatile.”

Margo clips a particularly scraggly hang nail. “Oh, so you two haven’t fucked?” Something clangs on the bar cart but when he glances over Eliot seems totally focused on pouring their drinks.

Q looks back to Margo who is watching him with devious eyes. “What?” He says. “You can’t seriously think that me and Penny? No…come on!”

“Me thinks he doth protest too much,” Margo says like the total dork she is. It’s usually endearing.

Eliot has wandered over with their drinks on a fancy platter. He sets them down on the coffee table.

“We didn’t Margo.” Q rolls his eyes. “I mean okay, I’ll admit that yes, Penny is hot…but he’s a dick.”

“Mmm. Total dick,” Margo licks her lips.

“And-“ Q cuts her off. “He hates me, so there’s that.” He wishes he could fold his arms but Margo has his left hand in a vice grip.

She gives him an innocent look. “My train of thought was more along the lines of hate sex being pretty hot. Don’t you think El?”

“I think,” Eliot picks up two glasses and holds them out. “That these drinks will water down if you don’t start on them now and I didn’t use my precious time to make them for them not to be savored.”

It’s much later; Margo has wandered up to her bedroom with a full glass of whatever delicious concoction Eliot has made and it’s just him and Eliot left lounging in front of the fire.

Q hums as he takes a sip of the drink and glances up, catching Eliot’s eyes.

“Does that meet your approval,” he tilts his chin towards Q, eyes shining.

Q laughs, “eh, it’s not terrible.”

“Hmmm, high praise from someone who loves white zinfandel.”

“Wow, Margo’s right - you are a snob!” Q bites his mouth to try to button his smile.

El scrubs a hand through his hair, “You’re onto me,” he clears his throat and if Q didn’t know better he’d say he’s nervous. “Hey… you know, you can stay here. We have plenty of empty rooms.”

Q nearly chokes on his drink. “What?” He coughs. “Here? Like the cottage?”

“Yes, like the cottage,” Eliot laughs. His eyes in the firelight are dark, his hair a dark glistening auburn. “What…did you think we would hang you out to dry in your hour of need?”

“No, I just.” Q’s heart is pittering. “I don’t know what I thought.”

“Hey, Q you don’t have to,” Eliot’s eyes are big and earnest. “Only if you want to.”

“I want to,” It bursts out of him and his face heats. “I do…thanks Eliot.”

Eliot’s face softens in the flickering light. “Of course,” He says, voice soft and deep. Q closes his eyes and lets that voice seep into his bones.

* * *

“How did you collect so much shit so quickly?” Julia pants, carrying a milk carton of books.

“God only knows.” Q wipes the sweat away from his brow. He’s beginning to seriously doubt he has the stamina to haul in the rest of his books. He pauses for a moment to pile his hair on top of his head in a messy bun.

Eliot meets them half way across the lawn, looking so well put together in his dark green silk vest it almost hurts to look at him. Julia gives him a sly look out the corner of her eye that he ignores.

“Here, let me take that,” Eliot grabs a box from him and then pivots to take one from Julia.

“You don’t have to- oh okay thanks.” Q stutters, feeling like a heifer in his sweat pants and hoodie.

“Our knight in shining armor,” Julia jokes, looking like a proverbial cinnamon stick in a floral dress. Ugh. Oh well.

He follows Eliot up the broad stairwell in the cottage, down the hall and into a sunny room with pale mint green walls and two big window seats that look so cozy Q nearly cries. He stands in the door way with his mouth open for a moment.

“I thought you’d like this one,” Eliot is saying, putting the box on the bed. It’s got lots of windows and as Eliot turns, the light limns him in a loving silhouette.

“I love it,” Q says, in a daze as Julia finally catches up to them.

“Damn Q, nice digs,” she says, dropping the box with a thump right inside the door. “Also, I had a thought as I was sweating my balls off on the way over here - aren’t you a telekinetic Eliot?”

“Oh shit,” Eliot puts a hand to his head and yes, Q is pretty sure of it, he does seem to be blushing. “You’re right...I am indeed.”

After that the moving in goes quick.

* * *

After dinner (pasta alfredo), Q wanders the cottage. It’s a different sort of creature without the raving parties; quieter, more homey. There’s even a little library and a small piano tucked into one of the corners that Q has sworn he’s never seen before.

He pushes up the lid and pulls out the little bench, sitting down. After a moment of contemplation, he starts to play the scales, fumbling his way through on touch memory.

“I didn’t know you could play,” He jerks his gaze up and sees Margo leaning against the doorframe. She raises her eyebrows at his suddenly clumsy hands.

“Yea,” Q clears his throat. “It’s been a while.”

She wanders over and crams her way onto the seat next to him. “Teach me.” She commands.

He smiles and teaches her the scales.

“Teach me a song,” She commands, after she runs through them.

He laughs. “Alright your Majesty.” He teaches her twinkle twinkle little star.

“What. The. Actual. Fuck.”

Margo flubs a key as they jerk their heads up and stare like kids caught after curfew. Eliot is standing in the doorway with his hands on his hips. Inexplicably, he has his sunglasses on.

“What?” Margo folds her arms, strangely defensive.

Eliot stares. After a moment, he pushes his glasses on top of his head. “Oh nothing,” He says in that calm way that tells Q he’s feeling some Deep Emotion. “I didn’t know you could play Bambi.”

“Q is teaching me,” Margo smirks. “He’s real good with his hands.”

“Okay!” Q flushes, plinking a couple of keys.

Eliot watches him. “Hmm.” He says, like that means anything. After a moment he claps his hands together. “Right, well do you kids want some drinks with your music?”

“Yes please,” Margo blows him a kiss. “Make mine a double.”

* * *

Alice and Julia help him set up the wards in his room, knitting a pretty gold web that shimmers and disappears like gossamer in the wind.

“Thanks guys,” he says again, from his perch on the bed. Alice and Julia had forbade him from joining in their tuts the fifth time he’d fucked it up.

“No problem Q,” Julia gives him a cheery wink. Alice smiles.

The three of them spread out their books on the floor and start to study. It’s become so common now that Q no longer feels the spark of anxiety from having his personal space encroached upon.

After a few hours of studying, Alice makes her usual excuses and leaves (Q and Julia share Big Looks behind her back). Julia stays for dinner.

In the kitchen Eliot and Margo are whipping something up. Well, Eliot is, Margo is at the island with a glass of wine. Julia wanders in and starts talking to her and Q takes a moment to admire the three of them from his vantage point in the hall. Something warm rises in his chest.

“Q!” Eliot calls over his shoulder. “Come here and hold this for me while I peel the carrots.” He wiggles a colander in Q’s general direction.

Q laughs and goes to do his bidding.

* * *

After dinner, the four of them settle out on the patio and Q listens to them gossip – there’s a surprising amount of it. It’s good for a while, until inevitably politics comes up. Most of the time Q lives his life without even thinking about what he is; it’s funny that way – it’s often _other_ people who remind him he’s different.

“Isn’t that a little old fashioned?” Julia is asking, a frown marring her face. Q wants to strangle her but settles for widening his eyes at her meaningfully from behind Eliot’s shoulder. She doesn’t even bother glancing at him and he huffs with annoyance, folding his arms and sinking further into the lawn chair. Margo is watching the two of them like a very hungry cat.

Julia and Eliot have been debating for the past fifteen minutes and it has gotten increasingly heated on Julia’s part - increasingly apathetic on Eliot’s. It’s one of his tells, Quentin has come to find, that when something is starting to make him Feel, he shuts down. Apparently gender norms is a thing that gets to him.

It definitely gets to Julia who hates definitions of any sort - unless you confuse her with being pro Family Advancement, then God help you (not even God could help you). Unfortunately, Eliot had fallen into her big-eyed honey trap and Q can tell by the tapping of his fingers against his leg that he’s about at the end of his rope.

“It’s anything but,” Eliot intones blandly, taking a casual sip of his purple drink. Smoke rises off of it in paisley patterns. His long fingers keep tapping his leg under the table. Tap-tap-tap. Some untranslatable Morse Code. “I refuse to adhere to stereotypes, that’s all.”

“It’s prejudiced.” Julia bites out, crossing her arms and leaning back against the patio table. Her little body is practically vibrating with suppressed rage.

“Julie.” Q sighs, and Eliot gives him a startled look before turning to face Julia’s wrath.

“You seem very keen on Omega rights,” Eliot drawls. He puts down his drink and pulls out a cigarette, lighting it with a quick twist of his fingers. “You know, for a B.”

Margo barks a laugh.

_Oh, Jesus Christ,_ Q rubs between his eyes. _Here we go_.

“A B? You say that as if to insult me,” Julia puts her hands on her hips. “At least this B knows Omega’s are humans just as much as anyone.” Julia glares. And really, this is getting to be a bit too much, considering. Q very carefully looks down at his own concoction that Eliot had presented to him with a gleeful smile and a _try this, you’ll like it_ so sure of himself in his movements. His hazel eyes particularly bright with his green velvet vest. Q had taken the glass with his heart in his throat, fingers shaky.

“Of course they are,” Eliot says in that tone he uses when he thinks someone is being particularly stupid. He takes a casual drag from his cigarette. “they’re just not my preference.” He turns away from Julia as if to punctuate the end of the conversation and blows a smoke circle out into the twilight.

“Alright children,” Margo flips her hair. “I’m bored with this conversation.”

And despite knowing _knowing_ the ridiculousness of the situation, knowing he’s being stupid, so stupid, something inside Q curdles. But Eliot’s a B, it makes sense that he’s not into Omegas.

His collar feels tight and chaffing against his neck. The backyard feels suffocating, the big chestnut trees strange creatures in the weakening light. He shifts in his chair uncomfortably, acutely aware of who he is.

“I think I’m gonna head inside,” Q takes his glass and pushes away from the table.

“What?” Eliot glances over at him with wide eyes, cigarette burning down between his elegant fingers. “Really? You haven’t even finished your drink.”

“Yea,” Q shrugs, rubs the back of his neck, trying to loosen his collar. “I’m just tired, I think I’m gonna go to bed.”

Eliot looks at him, his eyes in the dusk of the backyard are a deep hazel, dark and unreadable. “If you’re sure,” he says softly after a moment, sitting very upright in his chair.

“Ye-up.” Q forces a smile. He doesn’t look towards Julia, whose gaze feels like a laser beam against the side of his head. “I’ll see you guys tomorrow.”

“Night Q.” Julia says quietly, something like an apology in her tone. Margo doesn’t say anything, just nods at him with a strangely knowing look on her face that makes Q avert his eyes.

He waves towards them and heads inside, throat tight. He doesn’t know why he’s so sad. But he feels like an idiot. Like he’s fumbling down a steep stairwell in the dark, putting a foot down with the expectation of a step and hitting nothing but air. He pulls open the sliding glass door to the cottage and goes inside, feels numb as he drops his glass off in the sink, all pins and needles before heading to the cabinet to down two motrin. Then he walks like a sleeper up the stairs to his bedroom and falls on his bed with a sigh, fully clothed.

“It’s fine,” he says to his pillowcase, voice croaky.

He and Eliot are friends, he has to get a grip or else risk the same embarrassment he’d felt towards Julia when he realized she had known how he had felt about her. He knows he was piss poor at hiding his adoration - was ever grateful that Julia had never said anything about it and let him move past it in the awkward shuffling way of his. Let his pining evolve into the badass duo they are now. He’s better for it, he knows, and someday it would be that way with Eliot if he can just push through.

He curls on his side and tucks in on himself like a sea creature in a shell. God, how had he let it get this bad? He scrunches his eyes shut hoping if he tries hard enough he can disappear through sheer force of will. Leave the husk of himself behind to wash up with the tide, bones bleached white under some forgotten sun. Maybe he can just stay like this, under a heavy tree with the sunlight dappling through the leaves-

Someone bangs on his door, jerking him out of his thoughts. His breath catches-

“Q,” Julia’s voice comes muffled through the wood. “Can I come in?”

He sighs, clears his throat a few times. “Yea okay.” He keeps his eyes closed, listens to the door squeak open, Julia’s soft footsteps and the depression in the bed that must be her sitting down.

“So, I probably should have stopped while I was ahead,” she says wryly, after a moment.

“Hmmm.” Q sighs again, then makes himself pull the covers down and expose his face. “I don’t need you to defend me.”

Julia looks down at her fingers, picks at his comforter. “I wasn’t-“

“Julie.”

“I-I…” she sighs. “I’m sorry. I just get protective and what he said rubbed me the wrong way.”

“It’s not your job to protect me.”

“I _know,”_ she looks up at him. “I know.”

Q feels himself stiffen, his mouth curl up in a sneer. “And _I_ know you think I don’t protect myself just because-“

“That’s not true!” She says hotly.

“-Just because I respond differently, just-just because I feel differently doesn’t mean I don’t protect myself,” Q pushes his stringy hair behind his ears, bites his lip. Takes a couple of breaths to catch his breath. “He doesn’t have to _like_ me Julia,” he says quietly, voice catching. “That doesn’t mean he’s a bigot.”

Julia clenches her jaw. “I know,” she says again, after a moment. Then she slumps, some angry light in her snuffing out. They sit there quietly for a few long minutes before Q lets it go and collapses back onto his pillows.

“You wanna come in Lady Julia?” he invites, holding up his quilt.

Julia’s smile is slow but sparkles her eyes. “Don’t mind if I do, sugar Q.” She kicks off her boots and shimmies her way under the covers, waft of cinnamon following in her wake. Q flips the covers over their heads. They lie together in the little nest he’s built, warmth and familiarity between them.

Q’s eyes grow heavy. He’s on the cusp of sleep when Julia puts her little palm on his back and whispers, “I’m sorry Q, I know you really like him. For what it’s worth…I think you’re really brave.”

Q holds himself very still and doesn’t respond. Eventually she sighs, pulls her hand away and rolls over. He listens to her breath even out and turns onto his back, staring up at the ceiling and the glow in the dark constellations speckling it. The heavy weight in his chest grows, the numbness crawling up his neck onto his face. His eyes cloud over and he closes them, raises shaky fingers to wipe the wetness away. _You’re so stupid_ , the mean voice inside himself bites out, _so stupid._

* * *

A soft knock jolts him out of Jane’s story. He looks up, bites his lip and slides the panel open. As he’d anticipated, Eliot’s standing outside the little reading nook, arms folded over his chest.

“You’re avoiding me.” He says, mildly. Like they haven’t been circling each other like strange birds for the last three days.

“No I’m not,” Q lies, tucking his knees further up. Eliot gives him a sardonic look as if to say, _right, pull the other one._ They stare at each other for a moment before Q sighs and scoots back. “You can come in if you want.” After he says it he holds his breath but Eliot doesn’t seem bothered. _And why should he be?_ Q thinks. After all, there aren’t the same implications being invited into an omega’s nest when you’re a beta. After all, Eliot isn’t into omegas.

Eliot somehow folds his long body into the other side of the nook. Their knees brush together and Q’s toes curl in his mismatched socks. He’s suddenly aware of the tight space, the soft pillows and the smell he associates with Eliot; _warmth,_ fresh rain in the woods. Earthy and heady. A safe animal feeling.

“Okay,” Eliot says like he doesn’t believe him. “Then it’s alright if I hang in here for a bit?” He leans back against the wood paneling, looking at ease despite his cramped position.

“Sure,” Q makes himself shrug, look down at his book. It’s his favorite one: time girl. His hands feel sweaty around it. Silence stretches between them for a few minutes, tangible and thick.

“Well this is awkward,” Eliot blows out a sigh and when Q looks up he sees that El’s staring at the ceiling, squinting, big hands lay splayed open on his thighs. Q looks away. _Be. Normal._ he tells himself sternly.

“No, it’s not,” he lies again.

“Look,” Eliot bites his lip, glancing over at him. something about the tilt of his chin, and turn of his cheek gives him an air of worry. “I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable the other day with Julia. I didn’t mean to imply – well.” He rubs at his face and the next time he meets Q’s eyes they look different, like some sort of veil has risen between the two of them. He speaks very slowly now, as if choosing his words carefully. “I just hope I didn’t make you feel…weird.”

“El,” Q sighs, closing his book. He chews over his options for a moment before going with: “You’re entitled to your opinion. I don’t think it’s bigoted to be attracted to a certain type…” He trails off, shakes his head, tapping his fingers on the spine of the book. Keenly aware of what type _he’s_ attracted to.

“I know,” Eliot says quietly, he’s sitting very still now, eyes intent. After a moment he shrugs. “It’s nothing personal to Os.”

Q swallows down something that tastes like missed opportunity. “I understand,” he says, voice hoarse. “I don’t think you’re prejudiced and Julia doesn’t either. She just gets a little hot headed when it comes to this stuff.”

Eliot opens his mouth like he’s about to say something, then closes it and sighs. “Yea I can tell.” He says softly, running a hand through his hair. “Alright.”

Q clears his throat, trying to dissipate the strangely charged air between the two of them. “Have you ever read this?” He asks, holding up his book.

Eliot doesn’t even glance at the cover. “Nope,” he says, popping the P. Something about his posture has relaxed, going soft. “You know I can’t read.”

It’s something he says a lot, a statement that never fails to make Q feel sad. It’s part of the character Eliot has meticulously created for himself and Q can’t help but wonder how many years of pain he’s had to go through to do it. How many layers of self he’s lost along the way or buried somewhere far away.

“Of course,” He quips, shaking his head and smiling because he knows that’s what Eliot wants him to do. He runs his thumb across the spine of the book, fans the pages out on his fingertips.

“What do you like about them?” Eliot’s voice has gone quiet again. When Q looks up, he catches him watching with a smile. The certain shape of his mouth tells Q it’s a real one.

“Hmm,” Q tilts his head. It’s not something he’s asked very often; due to the sheer popularity of the Fillory books, most people have read them as kids, like them for themselves, don’t really ask or care to ask why Q can’t seem to let them go. “I first read them when I was a kid, as… an escape mechanism I guess? But I just love the possibility, that there are other worlds out there. Other lives you can live if you need to. This one is my favorite,” he nods down to the book, tucks his hair behind his ear. “I think the concept of time and being able to manipulate it…change the mistakes you’ve made…”

“Yea,” Eliot clears his throat. “I get it.” Q sees the sadness in his expressive eyes thinks. _Oh sweetheart._

“Do,.,you want me to read some to you?” He asks. They do this sometimes, but usually it’s with through the buffer of the midnight hour and a few glasses of wine. Eliot tilts his head at him.

“Sure Q,” he says in that quintessential _Eliot_ way of his. Like his voice is a warm summer day, as welcoming as a sun kissed rock after an afternoon swim. Q feels his gaze upon him like a honeyed thing, he sighs and rearranges himself in his nest of pillows.

“Okay,” he clears his throat. “Er. Do you want me to start at the beginning or just where I am?”

“Where you are s’fine,” Eliot’s smile is clear in his voice. “I like listening to you read.”

And really there’s no way Q can respond other than to tuck his nose into the book and begin:

“They say time has no master but Jane knows otherwise. The answer and explanation a burning thing clenched in her fist. _If I can just go back_ she thinks, blinking through a veil of frustrated tears, _maybe I could stop this from happening. I will stop this from happening._

Of course, what Jane didn’t know was that she had had this thought before and would have it again. She had stood in that clearing for an infinite number of lifetimes and for none at all.”

* * *

_Out of all the Earthlings who were to rule Fillory, only two ever awoke to the trap of the time serpent. But neither of these would come to pass for hundreds of years. By then this Jane would have long since made her way out of the glen, leaving another Jane to wait under the trees for absolution._

* * *

“I want to play that thing you did last time,” Margo frowns at him. Her dark coffee scent is particularly sharp today and Q finds himself breathing through his mouth at her proximity. The last couple of weeks at the cottage have been an adjustment.

“What did I play?” He can’t remember.

“I don’t know,” She shrugs. Their shoulders brush. “it was the song at the end.”

“Hmm.” He thinks back, absently plucking out some keys. Somehow, their initial piano play fest (Eliot’s words not his) has evolved into a weekly thing where Q spends most of his time trying not to pull his hair out as Margo bashs at the piano. She’s not bad, but she has a very very limited amount of patience. “yea, I got nothing.”

Margo rolls her eyes. “My life for a brain.” She jokes. At least he’s pretty sure she’s joking.

“Nice.” He lets it go. “Here, if you can play heart and soul without fucking up I’ll teach you something more complicated.” Ode to joy or something, he thinks.

“Please, I can play that bullshit in my sleep,” she proves herself right as she bangs out the song. Heavy handed but pretty damn good. Q feels a spark of joy at his teaching skills.

“Awesome!” they share a grin. “Okay, Imma teach you Beethoven now.”

“How bourgeoisie,” Margo laughs. “Let’s do it.”

After an hour or so, Q leaves Margo in the library (after promising he’ll be back for dinner: _yes mom – oh honey if you want me to be your Mommy I will be – Margo!!)_ and gathers his books to meet Alice and Julia for a study session at a very different – less homey, more imposing – library.

They’re heads are practically pressed together when he finds them and they’re giggling about something. When they glance up, cheeks flush with excitement something tickles at the back of Q’s mind for a moment as he smiles at them and sits down. The rest of the day passes like that, and Q finds that to his surprise, he is…happy.

“You sure you don’t wanna come with us Q?” Julia asks, on the steps of the library. The autumn sun is setting behind her, lighting up her hair into a warm auburn. Alice is standing a few steps further down, eyes on Julia.

“Nah I’m having dinner with Margo and Eliot.” Q hitches his backpack up further on his shoulders. “You two have fun.”

“Alright, see you later.” The girls wave bye and start meandering down the path. Q watches them stroll away. He wonders at the curve of their shoulders for a moment and shakes his head.

* * *

“It’s tacky,” Eliot is crushing mint against the side of the glass with a devastating ruthlessness.

Margo throws her head back and laughs, “Oh you snob.”

“Tell me I’m wrong,” he raises and eyebrow at her. Q hides his smile behind his palm. The three of them are camped out by Eliot’s bar cart.

“I don’t give a fuck if it’s tacky,” Margo allows. “this is my house too and I’m throwing a damn Halloween party.”

“I didn’t say we weren’t throwing a party!” Eliot aggressively stirs some ice into the glasses. “I just said I am doing this under duress.”

“Fine, send a memo to my lawyer,” Margo holds her hand out for the finished drink. “don’t think I didn’t forget that I get to pick your costume this year.” Her blood red lips curl into a devious smile. “I know just what to pick too.”

Eliot’s face pales. He catches Q’s eyes. “God help me,” He gasps, all dramatic.

Q laughs and takes the drink he offers.

* * *

And so begins what proves to be the most ridiculous saga of Q’s life to date. That is: The Party Planning saga. He’s embarrassed to find that Margo and Eliot even have BINDERS full of décor ideas and music selections. What nerds. It’s actually kinda cute.

Eliot despairing at every suggestion he makes is much less cute. Eventually Q gives up and lets them do what they want. He tells Julia and Alice about it and they come up with a badass costume idea (ok, Julia comes up with it).

“It’s ironic,” Julia rubs her hands together before patting the glitter on Q’s face.

“Not really,” Q closes his eyes.

“Well, you’ve got the hair for it,” Alice says from where she’s adjusting her dark wig in front of the mirror. She’d been the hardest one to convince because like Eliot, she hated Halloween. ( _my parents used any excuse to throw orgies guys, and Halloween was like **the worst** )_. Eventually though under the gaze of Julia she had caved. Q knows that feeling well. Really, he was impressed; it had taken Julia two weeks to convince her.

They tromp their way from the knowledge house to the cottage and when they get inside even Q has to admit it looks awesome. There’s a thick fog everywhere, and what he suspects (but hopes he’s wrong) are real bats fluttering around.

He loses Julia and Alice almost immediately, but bumps into Margo.

“What the hell are you?” She asks him, charming as ever.

“Uhm, vampire.” It’s close enough, he figures. “Are you a cat?”

“Sex kitten,” Margo licks her lips at him playfully. He’s kinda disturbed how hot she looks with whiskers. “Come on, you gotta try this punch I made. It’ll burn your throat.”

“Is that supposed to entice me?” Q wonders aloud, but he follows her anyway.

Four hours later Q pleasantly buzzed and slouched down in the sofa cushions in such a way that they’re practically engulfing him. He feels warm, like he’s a little caterpillar in a cocoon. Eliot’s thigh is pressed against his side and Q can’t help but let himself collapse against him.

Eliot’s arm goes around him and Q tucks his nose into his shoulder inhaling the comforting fresh rain scent; bergamot, spicy new growth. Deep woods. Eliot’s hand comes up to cup the back of his neck under the heavy fall of his hair and it’s just so _nice_ Q could almost cry. After a minute he makes himself pull away and clears his throat.

“So.” He says, glancing at Eliot’s fancy getup. Somehow it hasn’t come up yet. “Let me guess. Oscar Wilde? Seems a little gauche for you.”  
  


“Oh, it is,” Eliot’s mouth pulls to the side mournfully. He picks at his garish cravat. “I lost a bet with Bambi.”

Q pffts, “Well making a bet with Margo was your first mistake.” He takes a sip of his heady wine. 

“Oh Q, where were you a year ago when I was making it,” Eliot sighs, but his eyes are soft with humor when he glances over at Q. Q floods with warmth when he realizes this is the first time in his recollection that El has called him by his nickname.

Q laughs. “Living in the muggle world.” _Probably institutionalized_ , he doesn’t say.

“Hmmm,” Eliot hums, looking out over the revelers. There’s some sort of magical fog in the air that gives everything a strange atmosphere. They sit together for a while before Eliot gets called by his adoring fans to make some more drinks.

“I’ll be back,” he tells Q very seriously. He must be drunker than Q thought.

“I will be here.” Q jokes, but Eliot nods with a straight face and wanders away. Q watches him make his way towards the tray cart. Can’t make himself look away.

“You’re totally letting him manage you,” Julia’s voice makes him jerk in surprise. He hadn’t even noticed her sit down next to him.

“What are you talking about?” He takes a sip of the bright gold concoction Eliot had given him ( _sweet enough for you Q?_ ).

“Oh come on,” Julia pffts. Her face changes when she catches his eye and she leans forward on the couch. “Are you serious?”

“What?” He asks, grumpily.

“He’s courting you, dummy.”

“What?!” Q can’t help it, he bursts out laughing. “I’m sorry,” he says at the look on her face, “but you can’t be serious.”

Julia folds her arms. “Oh can’t I? Look I have bit my tongue for months on this…but come on.”

“Julia.” He laughs again, this time more shakily. “No- he’s. No this is just Eliot being…Eliot.” he waves his drink.

“He didn’t seek me out to bring me a drink.”

“I..I’m sure he would if you asked,” Q says, suddenly unsteady. “Here do you want mine?”

“No,” Julia holds her hand out to block his attempt at sharing. “Q that’s not my point. You didn’t have to ask him and he brought this to you.”

“Julie,” Q sighs. He feels a headache building behind his eyes. “He always does.”

Julia just stares at him with raised eyebrows.

Q rolls his eyes. “Julia come on,” Inevitably, his eyes go towards Eliot who is on the other side of the room, Margo wrapped around him, holding court with a bunch of randoms he vaguely recognizes. As if sensing him Eliot looks up and catches his eye, giving a smile. Q feels himself smiling back.

“He’s an alpha you know.”

Q blinks and looks away, back to Julia. “What?” He says, struck dumb. “No, he isn’t.”

_I would smell him, I would know_. He can’t be an alpha, he doesn’t smell like an alpha. He smells, soft, like something _good_ , he doesn’t have a hint of that acerbic scent Q always associates with As. “Oh. Oh god. What?” He feels poleaxed.

Julia is giving him a pitying look now, her eyebrows scrunched up. “Yea,” she says quietly as if to soften the blow. “he is.”

“He can’t be.” Q’s hands are so shaky he’s spilling his drink. He sets it on the table.

“Q literally everyone knows,” Julia rolls her eyes. “Margo and Eliot are like the infamous Alpha duo.”

_The duo,_ he thinks back to the beginning of the year.

“Oh,” he whispers. “Oh my god.” Something inside of his body expands and contracts. Somewhere out in the distance he can hear his brain frying. “I think I’m having a stroke,” He says, voice faint.

“The drama,” Julia drawls even as her brows wrinkle, concerned. “You okay?”

Q stares at Eliot, who after a moment glances over and raises an eyebrow at him. How does he always catch him staring? Q looks away, clears his throat. “Yea. This doesn’t change anything.”

Julia searches his face before nodding slowly. Q could cry at the relief he feels at her blessedly changing the subject. He listens to her talk about some project her and Alice are working on. Q nods along at the proper places, but his mind is adrift. _fuck,_ he thinks miserably. He thinks about Eliot saying he isn’t into omegas. Doesn’t submit to stereotypes. He feels like an idiot. _What the fuck._

* * *

Eventually Julia and Alice head out and Q is left by himself to get progressively more drunk. The party begins to wind down and Eliot and Margo leave their worshippers to rejoin him. 

“Mmm,” Q feels himself wobble towards Eliot, fall against him in a slump. “Mmyou smell,” he says, voice slurring.

“Do I now,” Eliot sounds amused and very far away. The world is warm and golden, toned through a haze of syrup.

“Yea,” Q mumbles after a long moment.

“Oh, he’s trashed,” that’s Margo’s voice, maybe? Probably? He just barely with it enough to recognize her cackle.

“He could be worse,” Eliot says, ever generous. Somebody with sharp nails runs his hands through his hair.

“Sleep now?” Q mumbles, already mostly there. He thinks he hears somebody laugh again, and then he’s gone.

* * *

The next day he wakes up and feels like something has died in his mouth. He’s in his bed, the bed sheets wrapped around his legs so tightly he nearly falls off the mattress trying to untangle them. His head feels like it’s stuck between a vice. He takes a moment to lament his life, moans into the pillowcase, then he dresses with pinched eyes and stumbles downstairs.

Eliot and Margo are on the couch, somehow looking fresh as fucking daisies.

“Yo,” Margo laughs at him. “El oh, look at his hair.”

Eliot has a particular look on his face Q can’t even begin to parse because he feels lesser than an amoeba. He practically oozes his way onto the far side of the couch.

“Shh,” he presses his hand to his head. “Too loud.”

Eliot presses something into his hand. It’s some sort of foul smelling liquid. It takes everything in him not to gag.

“Are you trying to kill me?” He gasps, wincing as Eliot laughs.

“Just drink it Q,” he says, mirthful. And Q holds his breath as he does. His head clears blessedly and the ache behind his eyes disappears. He pulls in on himself when he notices how close to Eliot he is. The words _he’s courting you_ , ringing in his ears. But when he takes a chance and glances over at Eliot he doesn’t seem any different; he’s relaxed against the cushion, rubbing Margo’s feet. Q let’s himself take a tentative sniff, smells dark bitter coffee (Margo) and a lush foresty smell that’s anything but biting. Eliot. It makes his head spin despite its mellowness because he knows now that it means _alpha._

“Feel better now?” El asks lazily. His glance over to Q is soft.

Q’s heart is in his throat. His thoughts spin out wildly. He manages to wrangle himself enough to give a convincing “mmHmm,” to which Eliot turns his attentions back to Margo. He considers saying something, but what could he say? Eliot isn’t hiding the fact that he’s an alpha – he probably thinks Q knows he is one. He rubs his forehead. He thinks about smoke rings and Eliot and the words it’s n o t h i n g p e r s o n a l.

Fuck.

* * *

After a few days of intensive Thinking, which consisted of over analyzing just about every conversation he’s had with Eliot. Q comes to the conclusion that Julia is insane – which he knew from the beginning if he’s being honest. There’s no way that El has a thing for him. He barely even flirts with Q anymore and whatever flirting he does do can be easily explained by the fact that it’s El and he’s so gorgeous that flirting is his natural state.

Telling himself to get over Eliot is easier said than done. Especially since 1. Q really likes Eliot and 2. They are genuinely friends and he can’t just start avoiding him (past precedence). So, he does his best to act the same and he seems to be pulling it off, albeit maybe he’s acting a little weirder than usual (according to Margo).

Q’s playing the piano, plucking his way through Clair de Lune (his favorite). It’s something like 2 am and he can’t sleep. He closes his eyes and lets his thoughts drift. This song has always reminded him of dreaming while listening to the rain. Dreams of rain and dreams of rain, falling asleep to the motion of the train. He plays and plays and then lets the song softly end. Sits for a moment and sighs.

“Hey,” Eliot’s voice is so soft it doesn’t even startle him. Maybe Q knew he’d been there all along.

He opens his eyes, glances over. “Hey.”

Eliot’s leaning against one of the shelves, just inside the room. He’s got his dark green silky bathrobe wrapped around him and a quiet look on his face. In the dim light of the sole lamp, he’s beautiful, like some sort of Monet, the stuff of dreams. Like on the other side of that song was him waiting in the doorway.

“What are you playing?” he tilts his head, slowly, eyes on Q’s hands.

“Oh um, Clair de Lune,” He pulls his hands off the keys. “Sorry if I woke you.” It’s strange, speaking quietly together in the middle of the night. It feels sacred somehow.

Eliot smiles. “You didn’t.” He wanders over to the books, runs a hand along the spines for a moment before turning around. “You still teaching Margo how to play?”

Q’s mouth is dry. “Mmhmm,” he clears his throat. “Yea.”

El moves to sit on the couch and Q makes himself look away from his long legs. Their eyes meet. Eliot’s are so dark Q feels like he’s being swallowed whole.

“I didn’t know you could play like that,” El says softly. “Can you play it again?”

“Yea,” Q’s heart is racing. He wants this to be over; he wants it never to end. He thinks about Julia’s earnest face on the couch at Halloween. “I can do that.”

* * *

As it always seems to go in life, when the shit hits it hits hard. 

Of course Julia and him get tied together. It’s mortifying, because uh…they’re naked. Q keeps reminding himself, that they’ve been through worse. Julia was the one who found him in the bathtub when he was 19, nearly comatose with blood loss. Julia was the one who had held his hand during his first post heat fiasco, the one who always brought him food while he was in the thick of it. God, he loved her so much; thank God he wasn’t in love with her anymore.

“We don’t have any secrets,” Julia grumps. “We’re gonna die here naked and tied together on this roof.”

“Kinky,” Quentin sighs, rubs his eye against his naked shoulder awkwardly (his hair is itching it). “Shall we just Russian roulette it?”

She raises her eyebrows. “May as well.”

“I am…bipolar?” Q says hopefully and heaves a sigh when nothing happens. Julia gives him a little smile.

“I think I might be pansexual?”

“Really?” Q stares at her and she shrugs, biting her lip.

“I…” she sighs. “I think I might have a thing for Alice.”

“I knew it!” Quentin crows.

“Really?” Julia gasps. “Is it obvious? Do you think she likes me too?!”

“Jesus,” Q says in the face of her rapid fire questioning. Julia is in rare form. “It’s not obvious that you’re like…into her. I just know you well enough. And…I think she may like you too?” He tilts his head. “I don’t know, Alice is hard to read.”

“Yea,” Julia blushes, “she’s amazing.”

“Yea.” Q pauses. “You gonna ask her out?”

“I don’t know.” Julia purses her lips. “Maybe.” She glances down at their still bound hands and makes a face. “Guess that wasn’t enough, huh.”

“Guess not.” He sighs and mentally prepares himself. Well. Here we go. “Okay. Well, as you know, I have a thing for Eliot-”

“A thing huh,” Julia smirks, seemingly fully recovered from the Alice Confession. “Is that what we’re calling it these days?”

“Ugh,” Q rolls his eyes. “Ok yes…I…really like him.”

Julia raises her eyebrows. Glances down at their wrists. “No dice Q because we already been knew that.” she says because she knows it annoys the hell out of him when she uses that phrase. “You gonna ask him out?”

“Hell no!” Q barks a laugh, coughs, something jagged in his chest. “No.”

“Q we talked about this.” She’s all big eyes.

“Julie.” He big eyes her back. “No way.”

“But why?”

“Julia, were you not there for the entire conversation we had where Eliot specifically said he wasn’t into omegas? I’m a glutton for punishment but I’m not a masochist-”

“Pffft,” Julia blows a raspberry. “I mean yes, I was there and I heard him but he _obviously_ has a thing for you.”

“Julia,” Q wishes he could hide behind his hair but his restricted hands made it impossible. He thinks about Eliot’s eyes that night in the library. Eliot curling up next to him in reading nook, all legs. Eliot cooking breakfast and laughing in the sun. Eliot Eliot Eliot. He shakes his head. “Please. I am begging you PLEASE drop it.”

She has a mulish look on her face but after a moment she heaves a sigh. “Fine,” she says, “but I think you’re making a big mistake.”

“Well it’s my mistake to make isn’t it,” Q bites out through clenched teeth. Really Julia?

“I guess that’s true.” Q can see her conceding the point. Pfft. Sometimes she makes him so mad.

He counts to ten and lets it go. “Alright your turn.”

They stand in silence, and Q watches Julia’s face pinch in thought. After a moment she pales and clears her throat a few times. It makes nervousness rise in Q’s gut. God, this must be a doozy. Suddenly he’s not sure he wants to hear it, maybe they can learn to live tied together. Hm..probably not.

“I’m jealous of you,” Julia blurts out. Her eyes go wide, like she can’t believe the words that just came out of her mouth.

Quentin can’t either. “What?” He scoffs. Her ropes loosen and she rubs her wrists. “Why the hell would you ever be jealous of me?”

Julia kind of curls her shoulders in on herself, bites her lip. “You’re an omega,” she says after a while. “I don’t know. I just. I wish….”

“It’s okay,” Q puts her out of her misery. He thinks he must still be in shock. “You don’t have to explain.”

“It’s not that I’m not happy for you because I am,” Julia folds her arms over her chest. “I just wish…it for me too.”

Q nods although he’s not sure he understands. He looks down at his bound wrists and sighs, searching his scrambled brain.

“We’ve known each other a long time,” he says slowly. “And even though sometimes you drive me crazy...I’m so lucky to have you in my life. You’re my sister Julia and I love you.”

“I love you too,” she’s got tears in her eyes.

He smiles, sniffles. “I think…no I know. I want to be happy. I’m want to work on myself, I don’t…I don’t want to give up anymore. I want to live.”

The bonds around his wrists loosen and Julia is there to hug him.

“I’m so proud of you,” she says against his ear. He tucks his head into her shoulder and closes his eyes. 

* * *

South Brakebills is…weird. Uncomfortably so. Q paces his dormitory room and counts the days. It’s cold and grim and he hates _hates_ Mayakovsky and his way of looking at things no matter how much Julia seems into it.

“He’s pushing us to our limits,” she hisses out of the corner of her mouth, during one of their terrible sessions.

“He’s a fucking sadist,” Q hisses back. “Stop drinking his Kool-Aid.”

“Shut up the both of you,” Alice hisses at both of them. Julia and he share wide eyed looks of surprise. Alrighty then. 

Eventually, thank God, it ends and they come back, the three of them, giggling as they tramp through the woods, dizzy with relief and endorphins.

“Quentin!” He hears his name being called and he glances up, squints through his wet hair. Eliot’s standing by the grill, hand raised, looking like an old film star with his glasses and his hair. Margo’s next to him with a cute umbrella. Q’s heart pitter patters in his chest and he raises his hand back in return. He ignores Julia nudging his shoulder.

And life goes on.

* * *

Julia finds him one day, her face practically aglow.

“Q!” Jules is basically vibrating with excitement. It’s way too early in the day for that kind of energy.

“What is it?” He’s balls deep in revisions and has been sending unkind thoughts towards Eliot who has been dozing off and on on the couch all morning.

“Ixnay on the tudystay,” Julia says manically.

“You do realize everyone speaks pig latin,” Eliot intones from where he’s sprawled out on the couch, eyes closed. Q jumps in surprise; he’d thought he’d been sleeping.

Julia gives Eliot the stink eye. “Oh really, I had no idea,” she says blandly. Then after a moment spent eyeing him she adds slowly, voice deliberately casual: “I was just coming to take Q out for some early birthday libations.”

Q jerks his head up. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Eliot sit up abruptly on the couch.

“It’s your birthday?” He all but squawks, eyes wide. Q stares at him. It’s the first time he’s ever seen Eliot be anything less than elegant and that’s saying something.

“Er, not until tomorrow.” He shrugs. “I don’t make a big deal out of.” Not since he turned 16 anyway. Haha.

“Okay, okay, cool.” Q has also never heard him say the word _cool_ before. It’s weird as hell.

“Great. Hmm.” Eliot’s voice is suspiciously calm, and he runs a hand through his hair. “Well, I just remembered I had a thing to do with Margo so I’m gonna,” he waves the same hand, “I’m just gonna go. You two kids have fun now.” He all but jets out of there.

Q and Julia stare after him for a moment. Then he turns to her. “Was that really necessary?”

“His face,” Julia cackles like a maniac. “Haha! I wonder what he’ll get you.”

“You’re evil.” Q shakes his head watching her lean on her thighs and laugh.

“Hahaha, I can’t wait to tell Alice.”

“Is there a reason you’re here?” He asks bitchily, folding his arms.

“Oh yea!” She straightens and pulls a paper out of the ether (seriously where did it come from?). she cocks a saucy eyebrow. “I am here to give you your present.”

“My birthday isn’t until tomorrow.”

“Ye-es, but Alice and I just figured this out and I _cannot_ wait another second.”

“Where is Alice anyway?” He gives her a significant look.  
  


“She had a class.” Julia rolls her eyes. “Here take this,” she waves the paper. “Take itttt, read ittttt.”

“Okay okay fine!” He snatches the paper from her and unfolds it. Stares at it blankly, the words refusing to compute.

“This is just the preliminary studies. But…but…I think we could potentially find a portal.” Julia’s voice is trembling.

“I’m tripping,” Q puts his hand to his head. “This is a dream.” He looks up in a daze to meet Julia’s eyes.

“The best fucking dream ever!” She crows.

“Fillory is real,” he whispers, clutching the piece of paper in his clammy hand. He looks back down at it, sweeps his eyes over the calculations, the fine gossamer design of a portal spell that transcends worlds.

Julia laughs, “Fillory is real!”

* * *

Q spends the rest of the day in the library with Julia (and Alice after she gets off class). Julia has a proverbial mountain of books stacked up on the table. She and Alice go on and on about their research; past portals, back tracking Jane Chatwin’s entries to Fillory and the like.

“What even made you curious about this,” Q wants to know. “Not that I’m complaining.”

Alice and Julia exchange a looks. “Well,” Alice says after a moment, she fiddles with her fingers and takes a breath. “You know my brother Charlie?”

“Yea?” Q files away his name into the Alice box in his brain.

“I’m trying to find him,” she bites her lip. “He…used to be a student here. He was uh, part of the third year class that disappeared.”

“Shit. Okay.” Q rubs his mouth. The infamous third year class was a rumor he hadn’t paid much attention to. Obviously a mistake now. “And you think he could have what? Gone to Fillory?”  
  


Alice gives a tight shrug. Her little pink sweater stretches over her thin bird shoulders. “He was researching it before…him and a couple of friends.” She doesn’t say I want to believe it’s true, but Q can read it in the shape of her mouth. Julia puts her hand on her shoulder.

“We’ll find him,” She promises, eyes solemn.

“Sure we will,” Q agrees. Alice’s eyes are wet when she meets his.

“Thanks,” she clears her throat a couple of times. Q catches Julia’s eye and he knows she’s thinking what he’s thinking: failure – not an option now.

He gets home after the sun sets, exhausted but filled with a strange sort of excitement. The cabin is dark, it’s inhabitants asleep for the night. He wanders up to his cozy bedroom and passes out. Dreams of strange trees and fields full of bright lights.

He wakes up to something warm and squishy being rubbed onto his nose.

“Whaa-” He reaches up to wipe it off and catches sight of Eliot grinning sitting next to him on the bed. “What are you doing?” He asks in a daze.

“Happy birthday,” Eliot whispers sitting back with a laugh. He’s wearing his green bathrobe and his hair is haloed around his head.

Q rubs his fingers together. “Butter?”

“To help you slide into the new year,” El laughs again and sticks his finger in his mouth. “Get up, Margo and I have something for you downstairs.” He leaps out of the bed before Q can say anything and zips out the door.

Q lays there for a moment in contemplation, sticks his buttery finger in his mouth. Mmm. Yum. Why is Eliot so weird? A bubble of happiness rises in his chest. No one should have that much energy at, he glances at his phone, 1 am.

“Sheesh.” He sighs. Okay well, better get up before they drag him out of bed. He has a memory of a few Saturday’s ago where they did just that.

He pulls on a black hoodie and some sweats, runs his hands through his hair and then shuffles downstairs. It’s still pretty dark on the lower level but he sees that some candles have been lit here and there. He wanders towards the fire place and spots Eliot and Margo sitting in front of it. Eliot is still wearing his robe and Margo is in some silky looking kimono type get up that makes Q kinda jealous if he’s being honest. In front of them lies an assortment of wine and platters with what can only be described as a metric shitton of cheeses.

He stops. “Wow,” he says. It really is a lot of cheese. “You shouldn’t have.”

Margo makes a face. Even without makeup she looks flawless. “Oh, I am well aware.” 

He sticks his tongue out at her and she laughs and reaches out to grab his hand and pull him down next to them.

“Happy birthday nerd,” she says happily, stuffing a piece of cheese in her mouth.

Eliot pours Q a goblet ( _yes of course this is a real crystal goblet Q, what are you trying to say?)_ of wine and he leans back on his elbows and watches the two of them divvy up the cheeses. Eliot’s dark curls keep falling into his eyes and he keeps having to pause to brush back his hair. In the fire light his hair looks almost auburn.

Q feels contentment rise in him, as he watches Margo tuck a strand behind El’s ear and El smile at her. He doesn’t know how he got invited into their inner circle but he’s so damn happy he’s there.

“Thanks guys,” he says, heart in his throat. Eliot and Margo glance over with soft faces.

“Of course,” El says and then pushes over a saucer with cut up cheeses. “Now eat this. It goes perfectly with that wine.”

Q happily obliges.

* * *

In late December, Brakebills finally schedules snow. The first day Q wakes up to it, he nearly presses his face up against his window in glee. Q loves the snow; it helps to quiet his mind. Everything is coated in a soft blanket of white and the world sleeps underneath, peaceful at last.

The exact opposite of what seems to be going on in the living room when he wanders downstairs around noontime. Eliot is balancing haphazardly on a chair and floating what looks like little glittering Star of Davids to twinkle along the ceiling, bopping up and down in a jaunty fashion.

“It’s for the aesthetic,” Eliot sniffs at him when he asks. His hair is looking particularly nice today, Q notes with despair. He then enlists Q (who is tickled out of his mind) to help him set up his collection of little menorahs he’s hoarded over the years (“look at this one Q it’s _oil burning_ ”) it’s cute as hell.

The afternoon passes like that, just Q and Eliot together, with the exception of the five minutes where Todd wanders in and asks why Eliot is hanging up pentacles.

“Pentacles?” Eliot had looked scandalized. “Are you serious? This is the Star of David you heathen. I can’t even - get out of this house, you are banished forever!”

Todd had scampered away with a hurt harried look. Q had nearly fallen off of his own chair with laughter.

“Laugh a little harder why don’t you,” Eliot had grumbled, but he’d been smiling too.

Later, Eliot whips them up some beverages and they settle in front of the fire.

“I mean, how could you not recognize the Star of David, Q?” Eliot is still going on about it.

Q hides a smile behind his hand. “Mmhmmm,” he replies noncommittally, sipping his milky tea. He wiggles his toes in his thick socks towards the cracking fire. If he closes his eyes he can almost imagine it’s just him and Eliot in a cozy little apartment somewhere in New York city.

Julia and Alice join them in the evening and Eliot watches the three of them giggle over their study books with a strange look in his eye.

“I’ll leave you kids to it,” he says eventually, standing up and stretching his arms over his head. He’s one long line of beauty that Q makes himself look away from. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

Q rolls his eyes and watches El wander away. He looks back to the girls and catches Julia’s eye. She raises her eyebrows knowingly and he sticks his tongue out at her.

“I’m estimating we’ll have it within the next thirty iterations,” Alice is saying, biting her lip in concentration and squinting down at one of the massive tomes they have splayed open. “I’m going to run the math tonight.”

“Oh, I can help,” Julia raises her hand looking way too earnest at the prospect of vector calculus.

“Yea, I’m a hard pass on that,” he yawns. “Oh hey, do you two wanna come over New Years Eve? El and Margo are throwing a party.”

“I’m down,” Julia says, watching Alice run through some matrices. “What do you say Quinn?”

“Hmm?” Alice glances up, distracted. “Yea, sure sounds good,” her voice is faint and she scritches some numbers down on a piece of parchment. Q watches Julia give her goo goo eyes and prays he doesn’t look like that when he stares at Eliot.

* * *

“Hey there,” Q looks up to where Eliot has appeared at his side, all curly hair and lined eyes. “Come on, dance with me.”

“I-I really,” Q’s feeling too good to think up a quick enough response, especially in the wake of Eliot’s pretty eyes and black sequined tux jacket. “Sure,” he says, hopeless. Eliot grins and grabs his suddenly sweaty hand, drags him out into the fray of people.

“You making your usual resolution?” Q adjusts his spangly headband Margo had foisted on him. Eliot notices him fussing and raises an eyebrow. “Not really my style,” Q adds, flushing. They sway together and Eliot’s hands on Q’s hips burn like a brand through his shirt.

“I don’t know,” Eliot reaches out and gently pinches one of the letters. He lets go and clears his throat. “You make it work.”

“Thanks,” Q breathes through a suddenly dry mouth. “So, you quitting your vice?”

“Huh?” Eliot’s brow wrinkles for a moment before it relaxes and he laughs. “Oh sure,” he raises his hand up in an oath: “I do so solemnly swear this year is the year I will stop smoking.”

Q feels his eyes squish up as he smiles. “You know, I think I’ll take a crack at it too.”

“Oh yea?”

Eliot is somehow leading Q flawlessly even though Q knows he’s hopeless when it comes to dancing. Against Eliot’s shoulder, Q closes his eyes and tries not to think about how well they fit together. Eliot’s woodsy scent washes over him.

Eliot’s singing along to aud lang syne in a deep baritone. Q can feel the vibration in his chest. The crowd is writhing around them alit with a cacophony of cheers and laughter as the clock strikes a sudden midnight. Q hadn’t even heard the countdown over the sounds of El and his heartbeat in his throat. Over the din Q can just make out the distant plinks of a piano, and he wonders faintly who could be playing at this time of night.

“Happy New Years Q,” El says against his ear.

* * *

Life calms down for a while until mid-March when Julia busts into Q’s room one afternoon where he’s studying holding a handful of wrinkled papers aloft and screeching, “Eureka! Eureka!”  
  


“Jesus,” Margo follows her into Q’s room looking grumpy. “This is what you dragged me out of bed for?” She rubs her eyes.

Julia’s got that smirk in the corner of her mouth that makes Q sit up, sharply alert. Her cinnamon scent is bright with excitement. Something fizzes in the pit of his stomach.

“Did we solve it?” He asks, breathless.

“We did it baby!” Julia crows, throwing her hands up.

* * *

And so they go to Fillory. After a time. That is to say, there was a lot of initial screaming (Margo) and confused looks (Eliot), deviousness (Julia) and quiet amusement (Alice). Q doesn’t think he’ll ever look at his comforter the same way after Margo tore it off him and cackled with maniacal glee as he yelled about his right to privacy.

In late March they squeeze themselves through a graffitied old payphone in Brooklyn and stumble into another world.

Q rubs his face in a daze, breathing in the sweet air. They’re in some kind of meadow, big trees all around them. They startle a group of strange looking deer who flee into the shadowed underbrush. There’s the hum of insects alight and a laugh that he recognizes as coming from Julia. He catches sight of her and Alice gesturing to each other and the trees.

“Okay Q?” Eliot comes up beside him with a grinning Margo in tow.

“Yea,” Q sighs, breath tight in his throat. He steps closer to a tree and looks up into its branches. What he thought at first to be acorns were little clocks hanging from lush leaves. “Clock barrens.” He says to himself, stunned.

“Holy shit.” Margo’s voice is soft with reverence. They give each other wide eyed looks as Eliot takes out a cigarette and lights it with a flourish.

After a while they decide to ramble down one of the paths. Every once and a while Q will glance up and watch strange birds flit from tree to tree. They come upon a worn out cottage in a friendly little clearing and Julia declares it’s their spot for the night. As the girls go in to explore, Q and Eliot wander around back.

“Quaint,” Eliot stands by the dirt patio with his hands on his hips. Q hums, taking in the broken pieces of tiling and the forget me nots growing in between the cracks of a faded design. He meanders around the perimeter, until he comes to another pile of tiles. He crouches there and picks one up, turns it over in his hand. Realization comes to him slowly and he looks up, watches Eliot study the mosaic with a tilted head.

The cottage doesn’t look like it’s been lived in for a long time, but there are the remnants of a home that was well loved; a day bed set up at the edge of the mosaic; a soft red awning just outside the door; remains of walled vegetable gardens out in the yard; and – Q’s breath catches and he stands, wanders over to what must have been at one point a well-tended grave marker. He hears Eliot shuffle up beside him.

“Strange,” he says, taking the tile from Q’s hand. Taps it against his open palm. “This whole place feels like a dream.”

“Dream within a dream,” Q mumbles, catching Eliot’s eye. Something strange and soft passes between them as they stand at the stranger’s grave. “I think this is the mosaic from the books.” He’d read The Girl Who Told Time in almost its entirety to Eliot within the last month.

Eliot’s brow wrinkles and he looks out over the mosaic. Q watches the turn of his cheek; the soft shape of his nose in the fading light.

“The key to greater magic,” Eliot says, glancing down at the red tile in his hand, at the grave, to Q. His hazel eyes seem to glow. After a moment a grin spreads out across his face. “Holy shit is this what being a nerd feels like?”

The strange tension breaks between them and Q laughs so hard his belly starts to ache. “As if you weren’t a secret nerd already,” He says, rubbing the tears from his eyes.

“Can’t prove it,” Eliot quips, but he’s laughing too.

* * *

The next month proves to be a whirlwind. Fillory is amazing in so many ways but it is also very very fucked up and antiquated, especially when it came to omega rights. Q had found out almost immediately (ok it took 3 days because he was bad with remembering to medicate) that suppressants were simply not a thing in Fillory – along with birth control.

“Fucking ass backwards,” Margo had announced when she’d found out. “I’m gonna get scientists on this pronto. Post haste.” By this point she had been made High King (long story.)

“Pardon me your most excellent, most er-badass, most powerful Majesty,” Tick had raised a shaky finger. “But what is a ‘scientist’?”

The conversation had devolved from there.

Anyway, Julia and Alice were holed up in the Whitespire library trying to map out Fillory, find Charlie and a portal back to Earth for that eventuality. (“I am _not_ standing for this,” Julia had declared.) And Eliot and Margo (“I can multitask”) had formed another party planning committee. Q loved seeing Eliot in his element, but it was trying on his introverted self to talk to everyone.

During the latest soirée Q goes out on the balcony railing and gazes out over the dark water. He can see the shapes of the ships in the distance, strange monoliths rising out of the wet.

Somewhere past the bay lies the mouth of the Secret Sea. Beyond that, the Burnt Island chain full of moon beam flowers, the kind that smelled like your true love, the kind that the Chatwin siblings had propagated for their time garden. _Maybe after all this I can get a boat,_ he thinks, dreamily, leaning against the railing with his chin in his hands. Imagines himself on the deck of a ship, imagines sailing to a place where no one knew him.

“Hey.” Eliot’s voice comes so soft from behind him, it doesn’t feel like a surprise. Q glances over his shoulder and catches Eliot’s eyes with his heart pounding in his ears. He’s standing in the awning to the ballroom, cloaked in the shadow of heavy ivy vines. He looks beautiful in a dark purple brocade with silver leaves lovingly stitched across his chest. His garnet crown sits like it was made to be there, amongst silken curls. Q glances away, throat tight. Somehow, after all this time it still hurts.

The warm salty air sweeps his hair in his eyes and he brushes it back with an impatient sweep of his hand. _Get a grip_ he thinks sternly to himself, not for the first time when it comes to Eliot. The last month has been hard, in more ways than one. Maybe it’s the air in Fillory, or maybe it’s his simmering hormones, but he just can’t seem to put a lid on his feelings for El.

“Hey,” he echoes back after a moment.

“What are you up to?” Eliot wanders over to the railing and leans his lithe body against it.

“Oh, yanno,” Q sighs, looking out over the harbor. “Just dreaming.” He nods his chin towards the ocean. A gust of wind makes him shiver; the contrast between his warm skin and the cool wind, stark. He catches Eliot giving him a strange look out of the corner of his eye.

“Let’s go stand by the fire Q.” He says after a moment, moving away. “No medicine to heal the sick here.”

Q gives himself a moment to breathe and then sighs, following Eliot to the outdoor fire pit that some servant had lit mere moments after Q had wandered outside. He sits across from Eliot, on one of the cushions arranged just so and shifts trying to get comfortable. He rubs a hand across his flushed forehead and sighs. When he finally looks up to meet Eliot’s eyes they look worried.

“All jokes aside Q, should I be concerned?”

And maybe it’s the opioid air, or the fact that it’s been nearly a month since he’s medicated and he feels like he’s a spider barely hanging by a silken string, or he’s just so disappointed in the buildup of the dream of Fillory and its contrast in reality. Maybe he’s just sick of keeping a secret that surmounts to his identity, from someone he loves more than anything. Whatever it is, he finds himself speaking before he realizes what he’s saying – and then it’s too late.

His voice wobbles with misery, “no it’s not that,” he shakily tucks some hair behind his ears. “I’m just going into heat.” He watches Eliot out of the corner of his eye, sees him go still where he sits on his own cushion next to the fire.

“What?” Eliot’s voice is very soft, “what do you mean?”

“El, come on you know what I mean.” It feels like there’s a lump of iron in his chest. Eliot continues to stare at him with an unreadable look.

“But…” Eliot says finally, voice strangely hesitant, he tilts his head and the firelight glints off his eyes. “You’re a beta.” He says it like _your eyes are brown_ or _your name is quentin coldwater_ like it’s a part of him.

“Ah,” Q rubs the back of his neck, conscious of the perspiration breaking out on his forehead, his armpits. He licks his lips nervously. “I’m not actually?”

The silence stretches between them, broken only by the crackling of the fire. Q can hear his heart beating in his ears and struggles to keep his breathing calm. There’s a weight in his chest heavy like an albatross noosed around him. Nonsensically he feels like laughing, like wiggling his hands and saying ‘tada!’ look a magic trick by your resident fuck wit. It’s almost unbearable, but somehow he manages to not speak.

Eliot eventually snaps out of it and moves his gaze to stare intently at the fire, he puts a hand against his face, the movement clumsy like he’s half asleep.

An apology wells up inside of Q and he can’t hold it in any longer, “I’m sorry,” he blurts out, folding his arms tightly around himself. The headache behind his eyes pulses intensely. “I take a pretty hefty dosage of Suppressex. But…well that doesn’t exist here.”

Soon he won’t be able to ignore it and the pain will push him to crawl into a dark space to hide. It’s abrupt withdrawal and technically can be dangerous; but he’s been through it a time or two before when his brain was too broken to let him out of bed and take meds.

“You’re sorry? You-“ Eliot shakes his head. Rubbing his mouth with his hand he glances back over at Q. “Q you have nothing to be sorry for. I- “ he cuts himself off again, shakes his head again and gives a strange, choked off laugh. “God- I’m sorry. What you must have-“ He clicks his mouth shut, closes his eyes tightly like he’s in pain.

Quentin is very conscious of his own body; can’t imagine what he must smell like right now to an alpha. It happens sometimes, when he’s nervous. The pheromones and whatnot. He must stink if the rigidly controlled look on Eliot’s face is any indication. He’s got to get the fuck out of here.

“El, it’s not something I really tell people. Because I presented late it’s just easier to let them believe what they want to.” Q says softly.

Eliot’s watching him again, face a mosaic of light and dark against the flame. “Oh.” He says, through a pinched mouth. “Okay.”

“Okay.” Q echoes back, exhausted. “Um. I gotta go lay down.” He moves to stand and his knees crack. He tucks his hair behind his ear and makes himself stutter out an, “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Q,” Eliot calls out, as he turns to walk away. “Can I get you anything?”

“No, I’m okay. I-I’m used to it.” Q says, over his shoulder. He can see Eliot, limned in light against the dying fire, fists clenched at his sides. He’s so beautiful it makes something deep inside Q ache. It hurts to look at him. Oh god, what had he _done._ “Thanks though, El.”

“Of course.” Eliot says, voice soft. He says nothing else and Q nods, turns away, makes himself shuffle inside.

* * *

The thing about late bloomers (according to Julia’s research – and verified by Q’s unfortunate reality) was that their heats are particularly brutal. Nothing at all like the scenes in pornos that Q had guility (desperately) fapped over or the honey sweet ones in romance novels that he had strategically (clumsily) hidden in the bottom of the kitchen’s trash bag when he finished. That kind of propaganda shit was for the birds.

The truth is he’s too neurotic to be a decent O to anyone. Sure, people talk like needy omegas were the hottest thing since sliced bread but the reality of it was much different. Q just wanted too much. He’s been told his pheromones are cloying and claustrophobic.

One of his few alpha dates had actually told him he smelled like a ‘french whore house’ – and not in a fun sexy way, Q had been mortified to realize. Fuck, he wasn’t even attractive to alphas. Scent too potent, too sharp. It had been a tough pill to swallow and such a relief when he started Suppressex and his scent dampened to something neutral, something along the lines of a very mellow beta. Q isn’t unaware of the irony, but the taste of relief is as sweet as ambrosia.

The problem is that once every 6 months or so – or so because sometimes his broken brain’s hormones didn’t produce the proper hormones– his heat hit and it hit with a vengeance.

When he lived with Jules he’d hole himself up in his little hovel of a room and nest for the night. At Brakebills Julia had taught him the coveted gender ward, which he cast with shaky hands (or called Jules to come and do it since hers were foul proof; and one memorable time – Alice). But this was Fillory and because it was less a magical kingdom of Quentin’s dreams and more a fucked up bigoted shitstorm, gender magic was forbidden. So here he was tucking himself away in the castle with nothing but a prayer to God – Ember ? Umber ? better hit every one on the list. His room is at the top of a tower (part for isolation part because who the hell doesn’t want to live in a tower?), but now it takes everything left in him the schlep up the spiral stairs. At the top he takes a moment to pant and press he flushed cheek against the stone.

Julia intercepts him in the hall to his quarters. She’s wearing a sparkly, spangled dress with bright red lipstick. She looks like a million bucks. “Wow,” she says, eying his crumply form. “You look rough.”

“I told Eliot,” he rasps. His eyes feel swollen like he’s been crying.

She stares at him, face gone white. “Shit.” She says softly.

“He would have found out anyway,” Q sighs. “You can’t smell me but believe me when I say I stink. I think the S has worn off.”

Julia wrinkles her brow. “Uh, I can smell you Q,” she says somewhat amused despite the situation. “You don’t stink.”

His heart flutters. “Hm?”

“I mean, I’m sure you smell stronger to As,” Julia shrugs, “but you don’t smell bad. When you’re in heat you smell…I don’t know how to describe it. Sweet I guess? Like a ripe fruit.” She actually blushes and laughs. “Oh god. That sounds like the beginning of an AO porno.”

“Why haven’t you ever told me this before?”

Julia sombers. “Because you have this idea in your head, and I don’t know who put it there but I wish I did so I could kill them, that you for some reason are defective since you presented late ,or you’re on antidepressants or something. I didn’t want to send you spiraling like you are now.”

“I’m not spiraling,” Q says faintly, spiraling. His mind is trying to rearrange memories, clips of Julia hugging or snuggling him, petting his hair, but nothing makes sense. “Wait, what do I smell like usually?”

“Q,” Julia sighs, long suffering. “When you’re on Suppressex I can’t smell anything, you’re like I don’t know. A dryer sheet? One of those hypoallergenic ones that barely smell. Before you were on anything you just smelled sweet.”

“Cloying,” he says bitterly, keenly aware of how sweaty he feels.

“No,” Julia corrects, gently flicking the side of his head. “Sweet. Now let’s get you into bed and I’ll put up a ward. Not gender unfortunately, but at least it’ll keep out unwanted visitors. God and I thought earth was backwards.” She shakes her head and makes to head up the steps.

“Julia,” she turns to look at him and his heart feels so full. “Thank you.”

“No thanks necessary,” she says. “Now let’s get you to bed.” 

* * *

Q wakes between fits of senseless fever dreams. He’s drenched in sweat, hair sticking to his flushed face. He feels a deep ache in the core of him that he can’t satiate no matter how many times he goes at it. There’s a lot of crying pathetically into his pillow. He imagines in his weaker moments, what would happen if he wandered down the halls of the palace. Would someone find him? Would Eliot?

As the morning finally dawns, with it brings some sort of relief. He’s still achy as hell but at least his mind has clarity. He pushes open the windows and closes his eyes against the cool morning breeze. His hair has dried stiff with sweat against his neck.

There’s a faint knock on his chamber door and he sighs.

“Come in,” he calls out and gets a waft of sweet cinnamon as the antechamber door opens. He keeps his eyes closed as Julia comes to press her hand on his back. He feels a rush of love for her, because he knows he’s disgusting.

“I called for a bath before I came,” she rubs his back. “How are you doing?”

“Oh, you know,” he clears his throat. “I feel like death so…typical.”

“Cold turkey never played well for anyone,” Julia sighs. There’s another knock on the antechamber door and Julia pulls away. “I’ll go get that.”

Q gives himself a moment to breathe in the cold air, in-out-in-out, he tries his best to quiet his turbulent mind. He thinks of Eliot’s eyes dark in the firelight, he thinks the way his fingers curl around a coffee cup, he thinks inexplicably of the huge field by his ramshackle house growing up, how after his mom had left and the hours he’d spent trying to lose himself out there, lying on his back to look up at the sun. Stumbling home in the twilight hours with a burnt face, sniffling under his covers wondering why he wasn’t enough day after day after day-

He shakes his head at himself, moves away from the window.

* * *

Eliot finds him a few days later in the Whitespire’s huge library.

“You don’t have to tell me everything,” Eliot says quietly. He’d moved to sit next to him on one of the vast window seats. “So please don’t apologize for keeping something to yourself.” He glances up and their eyes meet.

“It’s not that I don’t trust you El,” Q swallows the lump in his throat. “You’re my best friend.”

“And you’re mine.” Eliot seems to shake himself, straightens so he’s sitting very upright. His eyes are very intent. “Q..I…I want to apologize if I gave the impression that…shit Q please tell me you know I don’t care if you’re an omega right?”

Q’s own eyes sting. “I know,” his voice wobbles, relief spreading in his chest. He wrings his hands together and he has to consciously make them stop. After a moment he drums up enough courage to meet Eliot’s eyes again; they’re very soft.

“Did I ever tell you…what am I saying, I know I didn’t.” Eliot shakes his head. “About Logan Kinear?”

Q tilts his head but doesn’t say anything. The way Eliot is watching him so directly tells him everything he needs to know. Eliot has to work his way through this and he has to let him.

“He was this kid who used to fuck with me in high school. A real asshole,” Eliot clears his throat. “I uh…one day I saw him walking down the street and I just,” he moves his hand. “He was hit by a bus and I started throwing up. I knew immediately what I had done, that it was me. Logan Kinear died instantly and I ruined my favorite button down.”

_Oh god._ Q reaches out and captures one of Eliot’s hands. Their fingers thread together. “I know nothing I say can make it better,” he says slowly. “But you were just a kid yourself El.” He thinks about the two of them lying in the grass, Eliot’s slow confession of growing up on a farm; his self-worth a beautiful mirage, his hateful father, his belligerent brothers. The mother who stood back and watched as his father tried to extinguish that remarkable light in him again and again. He looks at Eliot’s soft moss eyes thinks, _god he’s so brave._ Soft despite the violence he grew up with. His story could have turned out much different.

“Not too much of a kid to know right from wrong,” Eliot’s voice is hoarse.

Q nods. “Hmm.” He rubs his thumb over Eliot’s knuckles. “But still a kid with no one to protect you. I think you were brave…you did what you had to do to protect yourself.”

“I killed him Q.” Eliot looks stricken.

“I know,” Q squeezes his hands, looks down at the long fingers. He knows what it means to wander in the dark. He meets Eliot’s soft eyes. They look so scared behind a gossamer veil. “Don’t you think it’s time you forgave yourself?”

Eliot turns his face away, squints out into the vastness of the library. He grips Q back just as tightly. They sit together for a long time like that, holding hands. Q let’s his eyes drift around the library: it’s very a la beauty and the beast, complete with rolling library ladders to reach the higher tomes. Beams of sunlight cuts through heavy dust surrounding them from their perch on one of the marble window seats.

“I don’t know if I can,” he admits. Q says nothing, moves his thumb over Eliot’s fingers, touches his hand.

After a while Eliot clears his throat, pulls a hand away to scrub at his face. “What I wouldn’t give for a glass of champagne right now,” he huffs an almost laugh into his palm.

Q gives a shaky smile. “Sounds like you’ll have to ferment it yourself here.” He lets a calmer silence grow between them, closes his eyes.

“So we’re okay?” He asks after a moment. They’re left hands are still linked.

Eliot glances up at him, his eyes look very green. “Yea Q,” he says. “We’re okay.”

* * *

Three months later:

Margo eventually gives in and lets Q take the Muntjac on a “fact finding” adventure to the Outer Islands.

“But only if Eliot goes with you,” She had commanded. “He’s driving me insane.”

“Margo!” Eliot had snapped out, looking strangely harried.

So here they were, somewhere between The Needle and Whitespire. Q absofuckinglutely loved sailing; loved the fresh breeze, loved the open space. Eliot in a word…did not.

For the first couple of days he’d spent most of it leaning over the side of the balcony lamenting his life. The third and fourth day he seemed to start to get used to the perpetual rocking of the boat.

Now on the 8th day they were sitting on a blanket on the deck, staring up at the strange stars.

“Do you think they have names just like on Earth?” Q wonders idly. They never talked about stars in the books.

“Probably,” Eliot takes a gulp of his wine from next to him and makes a face. “Ugh. And if they don’t, as rulers we can most likely name them.” 

Q side eyes him. “I see where there is going.”

Eliot laughs. “Oh do you?” They grin at each other for a moment. Eliot’s eyes are bright, his dear face crinkled up with mirth and Q…he just can’t help it.

Almost before he realizes it he’s leaning over and kissing Eliot. It’s quick, instinctual. He’s pulling back with a sick feeling in his stomach and wide eyes.

“Hey,” he says, voice shaky.

Eliot’s eyes go soft. “Hey,” He says back before reaching over to press their mouths together.

* * *

“God, you smell so good,” Eliot presses his mouth to Q’s neck, tongues his pulse point. His voice is so deep it sends a rush of heat through Q, and his hands go up to clench at Eliot’s lapels.

Q’s eyes pinch shut. “I know it’s a lot,” he whispers. “Sorry.”

“Sorry?” Eliot pulls his head up, his eyes are dark, nearly all pupil but for a ring of green at the very edges. “Don’t be, it’s so sexy,” he leans in and opens his mouth against Q’s, presses inside to suck on his tongue. “When I first smelled you by the fire I thought I was gonna lose my fucking mind.”

They’re pressed together on the blanket, Eliot tucked between his legs. Q can feel him, a thick hardness against his thigh. His mouth waters. He hopes vaguely that no one comes up onto the deck.

Eliot kisses his way down his belly, nuzzles at his dick that feels like it’s going to explode. Pops the wet head into his mouth for a minute and moans like it’s the sweetest thing he’s ever tasted. Looks up at him through heavy lashes as he pulls off. “Lift up your legs for me baby,” Q reaches down to grip behind his knees and pull his legs up with a blush. His toes curl tight.

“You’re so wet,” Eliot says and then puts his mouth on him with a moan like _that’s_ the best thing he’s ever tasted. His nose presses up tight against Q’s perineum, sparking something deep inside Q. He cries out, grabbing at Eliot’s long hair and holding on as Eliot kisses him and kisses him, pushing his tongue in as far as it’ll go. His stubble rubs against the inside of his thighs and Q hears his breathy cries as if from far away, high pitched sobs that would be embarrassing at any other time.

His knees have fallen to cradle Eliot’s head and he can’t think about anything but the press of Eliot’s mouth, his nose tucked up under his tight balls. Q’s dick is leaking like a sieve against his belly and he can’t catch his breath. He thinks _oh god, I think I’m gonna come_

“El,” he gasps like a fish on a hook, “El, I’m gonna-”

Eliot hums against him and nuzzles his face closer. His big hands on Q’s thighs push them up, up against his chest. And Q can’t help it then, can’t help but press his ass back against Eliot’s face and cry out, dick spurting across his stomach and chest, something deep inside the core of him letting go.

The inside of his thighs are soaked, despite Eliot’s best efforts to lick the wet up from him.

  
“So good,” Eliot’s voice is hoarse, and he just keeps licking, pushing his mouth against Q’s hole in lazy open mouthed kisses. They’re like a complete circuit; Eliot pushing in, Q pushing back. He feels like he’s lit up from inside. Warm and soft.

“Eliot, please, please.” He cries out, hands in his hair, eyes damp.

“Alright sweetheart,” Eliot kisses him again before pulling away, nuzzling his way back up to his mouth. His chin is wet, mouth a sloppy red, eyes blown wide and dark and he kisses Q’s lips like he’s dying of thirst. And god, Q can taste what must be himself on his tongue; sweet and heady.

Eliot’s pinned him with his body, arms on either side of his head. Q can feel his big cock against his ass and he cries out, a wave of liquid heat coursing through him. Eliot grips the back of his neck, tilts his head back. “Q,” he pants against his chin. “Please baby, can I?”

“Yes, yes,” Q gasps out, pressing his ass back. He’s so wet, he can feel it dripping down around the curve of his ass. He wonders if he’s dripping on Eliot’s dick and something about that thought makes him want to bare his teeth and bite. “Eliot, yes-”

Eliot reaches down, touches the head of his dick to Q’s hole like a kiss, tucks up one of his legs, tight between their chests and goes to kiss him again while pressing his dick inside. Q gasps against his mouth, sucks fiercely on his tongue as he feels Eliot core out room for himself. Q’s wet, but Eliot’s so big the stretch makes his breath catch.

His dick presses against something deep inside that sets off a fire in Q’s hindbrain and has him moaning and pushing his ass back instinctively. It seems to go on forever but then suddenly Eliot’s all the way in to the root, furred balls pressed up tight against his ass, panting into his mouth, and moving his hips in little circles like he can’t help himself.

“Q,” he grits out, nuzzling the side of his face. Their hair is wet with sweat, tangling together. It’s a warm little cocoon, the world between their faces. “Q.”

“El,” Q feels like his face is on fire. He pushes back, mindless. “Please, please,” he doesn’t know what he’s begging for, but Eliot seems to, because he pulls back and pushes in with a jerk of his hips that has Q’s toes curling tight, mouth crying out _yes yes yes_. It goes on like that, Eliot’s dick pushing in and in and in, Q can’t catch his breath, doesn’t want to, opens his mouth against Eliot’s and pushes his ass back and back. The big head of Eliot’s dick presses against his prostate, against that place deep inside when it’s fully seated, deep inside Q’s belly. _Please_ , Q thinks, _please alpha_.

Their chests rub together, Q’s nipples are tight little nubs of pleasure as they brush against Eliot’s chest hair. His cock is hard between their bellies, so hard, spurting out drops of precome as it jumps with every jerk of Eliot’s hips. Q feels close to something, he can’t put a name to, some precipice deep inside. He can’t catch his breath more than to gasp out Eliot’s name. Eliot whispers Q’s name right back says things that make Q’s brain melt, things like _god you’re so good to me,_ and _your ass is the sweetest thing_ and _I’ve wanted to do this since the first time I saw you_ _walking towards me_ and _mine mine mine_

  
“El-“ he cries out, on a particularly deep thrust. Eliot doesn’t pull back, just grinds in deep, mindless, hands holding Q’s hips tightly in place.

“Q,” Eliot presses their foreheads together, looks into his eyes. Q’s never seen him like this, he looks cracked open, his hair is falling around them, his eyes are big, wet and so so dark. “Q I’m gonna- you gotta tell me if you don’t want me to-”

“I want you to-” Q presses back against the thick base of Eliot’s dick. “Oh please, Eliot, please alpha.”

Eliot moans, looking for a moment like he’s in pain, he presses in close, just rubbing their faces together. “I got you sweetheart,” he says, voice rough like he’s forgotten how to speak, “that’s it, press back against me.” Q does, presses back, presses back and cries out as Eliot’s dick swells inside him, the ache is sharp and so so good, the pressure against his prostate a constant zing of pleasure. He feels his dick spurt come as if it’s happening to someone else, his orgasm nothing to the feeling building inside.

Eliot’s gasping against his neck, hands like vices on his hips, his knot fully popped, Eliot moans sharply. Q can feel the kick of Eliot’s dick deep in him, thinks _oh god he’s coming, I made him come,_ the press of his knot against his prostate is incessant, he’s fucking crying, it’s all so fucking much, and something snaps, some thin string in the of him goes _zing_ ; Q’s coming, his ass gushing and gushing like a ripe peach heavy in the summertime, his brain shorts out with pleasure and still Eliot presses in like he’s not deep enough inside, making animal noises, mouth open against Q’s neck now, mouth open and biting down. The pain sparks another one of those deep orgasms and Q floats away.

* * *

“You smell like honey and,” he inhales against his neck. “Something sweet, I can’t explain it. Peach blossoms maybe.”

It’s later now, they’d eventually moved into Eliot’s cabin and sprawled out together in his bed of colorful silks. The candles flickering light casts the room softly aglow.

“Well I do like peaches,” is all Q can think of to say. He feels Eliot grin against his skin.

“I know you do baby,” he says softly. “I know.”

* * *

They spend a month sailing around the islands, learning the land and learning each other. By the time they make it back to Whitespire, Julia has a functioning permi-portal in the library. She explains eagerly that her and Alice have a lead on Charlie and that they won’t be heading back to Earth quite yet. Q explains eagerly that he and Eliot are getting it on.

“Fuck yes!” Julia is perhaps too ecstatic. She even pumps a hand in the air with glee. “See, I told you he liked you.”

Q laughs, rolling his eyes. “Okay, okay you were right this time.”

“I’m right every time!”

* * *

Q would have expected an awkward scene but the schedule he and Eliot work out just falls into place – they just work.

El and Q go back to Brakebills and El usually flits back biweekly back to Fillory and Margo. Julia and Alice (and Margo??? Q isn’t touching that with a ten foot pole) rule by her side. Q hears from a super jolly bunny that they’d found Charlie (he’d been captured by some human worshipping bear tribe in the west – another long story) and he was recovering at Whitespire.

He’s writing a letter to send to Julie in mid-july when he has a sudden epiphany; he’s happy. He puts his hand to his head in a daze and laughs in the afternoon sunlight. Holy shit. Somehow in the past year, he’s managed to grow into himself. His skin feels right. He knows his brain is still fractured, still shaky, and that’s okay. He’s imperfect and that’s…okay. The taste of relief is sweet in the back of his mouth.

* * *

When Eliot comes home that night he tells him his discovery, and the both of them lounge in Q’s bed together. Q takes Eliot’s hand and touches his fingers slowly.

“You tryin to start something Q?” El gives him a sly look that makes Q’s stomach flutter.

He swallows, manages to tilt his head in what he hopes is at least a somewhat charming way.  
“Maybe,” he says.

El leans towards him, gently taking his chin between his fingers. “Mmm,” he kisses him, mouth soft as a gossamer wing. “Alright, sweep me off my feet Coldwater.”

Q gasps out a punch drunk laugh that Eliot is quick to swallow, curves his hand behind his neck in the way he does that turns Q to jello in his arms. They kiss for a while, minutes passing by like molasses. Q loves kissing,

Eventually Eliot rolls him over onto his belly and tilts his ass up, hands clenched on the blanket. Eliot cages him in, rubs his stubble along the side of his neck lighting up nerve endings.

“You’re so tight,” he grits out, gripping Q’s hips in his big hands. His balls slap against Q’s taint with every thrust. “You gonna come on my dick like a good boy?”

Fuck, Q’s mind whites out and he comes, shooting globs of it up his belly and onto the bedsheets. Eliot’s hips are relentless, the noises in his ear deep and masculine. Q can’t catch his breath, turns his head to gasp and Eliot presses his mouth softly, softly to his chin, lips, tongue coming out to gently taste. It’s a sharp contrast to the unyielding thrust of his big cock into the soft places of Q’s tingling body. The sounds they make as Eliot pushes in and out of the wet are obscene.

“I don’t want to stop,” Eliot’s voice is low like a confession. He’s panting against Q’s mouth, less of a kiss now and more of just breathing between the two of them.

Q whines, pushes back. he thinks he might die if Eliot stops. His dick is already plumping up again, bouncing with the movements of Eliot’s hips.

And Eliot’s still talking, “that’s it baby, let me feel you, press that ass back against me.” He runs a big hand down Q’s belly to palm at his cock. “Your little dick’s getting hard already isn’t it? God you’re perfect-”

“El Fuck,” Q presses his face into the bedsheets. He feels like he’s burning up, sweaty strands of hair sticking to his face, eyes pinched shut, fists clenched in damp sheets.

“Hmm, that’s the idea.” Eliot laughs against his shoulder, moves his hand to rub at Q’s balls, further down to touch where he’s pushing in with his cock and Q is spread wide and swollen around him.

“Ah-ah” Q cries out, high pitched. He can’t seem to stop making noise.

“Mmm,” Eliot hums. “M’gonna fill you up.” he whispers against Q’s ear, hips hitching tight against him. He moves his hand back up to Q’s belly. “Gonna put a baby in you. You’d like that, such a good boy-”

“El,” Q’s mindless. His hands slide against the bed as Eliot pushes in harder, circling his hips and letting his knot catch, pull out, catch and hold. Q’s eyes roll back in his head and he comes again, cock barely dribbling because his balls are empty, ass clenching tight around Eliot’s dick. He imagines he can feel the flood of Eliot’s come deep inside him, filling him up, locking with him so he has to take his come and keep it. God there’s so much of it, alphas always make so much. He presses his face against the pillow and whines a mindless hunger ripping through him.

They lay together afterwards, Eliot rubbing gentle fingers along Q’s chest and belly. Idly circling his nipples. Q’s mind is deliciously blank, soft, he feels like he’s floating on a cloud. Every once in a while Eliot presses his nose to Q’s hair and he can feel him inhale and hum to himself.

He’s on the cusp of sleep when Eliot whispers, “I probably should have confirmed this much earlier but you are on birth control right?”

“Hmm?” Q makes himself wake up a bit more, turns his head muzzily and accepts Eliot’s gentle kiss. “Oh. No, but it shouldn’t be a problem.”

Eliot pulls away. Gives him a look of what Q is beginning to recognize as adoration mixed with amusement. “How do you figure?” He asks, voice soft and mellow. He looks beautiful in the candle light.

Q feels a flush of embarrassment. “Well,” he says, clearing his throat. “Um. Hormonal imbalance. Same reason why I presented so late. It’s…pretty unlikely I’ll ever be able to have kids.” Strange to be so bothered by something he had never given much thought to before.

When Eliot doesn’t immediately respond he feels the heavy feeling in his chest expand. “Sorry,” he adds, voice wobbly.

“Q,” Eliot gently grabs his chin and turns it so their eyes meet. His hazel ones are soft. “You have nothing to be sorry for.” He kisses the side of his face, the tip of his nose, his mouth until Q can’t help but crack a smile. Then he pulls back and meets his eyes again, more seriously. “You are perfect the way you are.”

Q rolls his suspiciously wet eyes. “Oh well, we both know that’s a lie.”

“Nope,” Eliot says, definitively. And his face is so open, so earnest Q can’t help but believe him. His traitorous heart leaps in his throat. “I’m serious Q, if I didn’t know any better I would have thought Margo paid to have you made in a lab for me.”

“Oh, shut up,” Q rolls his eyes again, his face feels suspiciously hot as he laughs.

“Besides, if we ever wanted a kid I’m sure if we put our minds to it we could make it happen,” Eliot says, a soft smile curving up his generous mouth.

“you mean put your dick to it?” Q quips and glows when Eliot lets out a belly laugh.

“Baby,” Eliot confesses, still chuckling. “When it comes to you, it’s basically the same thing.”

**Author's Note:**

> didn't find out Q's birthday was July 20 until this beast (haha) was done. I hope everyone liked it (does anyone still go here??). This was basically a therapy session for me. I had more but I just had to be done. I love Q...I miss him. Also, I wrote way too much of the fillory books while writing this...why do i want to write them now haha. someone stop me. also i never watched the last season of the magicians so. I'm blissfully ignorant.
> 
> Please let me know what you think, I love hearing from people


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